Dark and Light

Sometime between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five my dad started saying something like, "What do I need to do to get you off The Good Ship Lollipop? When are you going to learn that people aren't inherently good?" And I'm pretty sure there were a couple instances between twenty-six and thirty-five where I told a story or two that evoked a "Well, I can see you still like to ride The Good Ship every once in a while." By that time I usually just laughed at him because I was well aware of my stupid naivete in those moments, but when I was younger those questions used to make me angry at him.

In my innocence I wanted to believe nothing more than all people were good, they just messed up and made bad choices here and there. Most likely I wanted to believe this because that's how I saw myself and, at that age, it's very difficult to see the world outside of your own perspective. I think it took me getting severely beat down by life and the people that comprise the various aspects of it before I realized his words held some veracity. But to this day, I still struggle with the concept of "bad people." Maybe it's the artist in me, or maybe it's that I believe in things like redemption and true forgiveness and second chances, but I seem to walk through this life convincing myself there is a light in all people, it's just that someone needs to fan the flames a bit so that light can grow to something more than a flicker.

Because I hold this view, I leave myself open to great disappointment and discouragement when I happen to run across people that not only lack a flicker but seem to take great pleasure in the darker shades of life. I had one of those devastatingly discouraging moments today.

On a last minute whim, I drove home for my lunch break, just to take care of a few things. As I sat here and paid a couple bills, Windmill Dick stepped outside, like he often does, to smoke a cigarette while talking on the phone. Of course, with my windows open, I could hear every word he was saying. As much as I would love to make you laugh about his conversation, I can't because I actually sat here stunned and sick and wishing I hadn't heard a word of it.

Apparently Windmill Dick has a son who had a birthday this past weekend. Mr. Dick was at the birthday party with the rest of the friends and family and the kid got angry with one of his cousins. So, in his anger, he went into the house, went to his room, picked up a baseball bat, walked back outside and cracked his cousin so hard in the back of the head the cousin fell to the ground, knocked out and bleeding. After that, his son went back into the house and back to his room where he shut the door and started playing with his toys. As if that's not disturbing enough, Windmill Dick laughed as he told the story saying, "Yeah, man, it was the coolest thing I'd ever seen! And everyone started screaming and my ex was crying and screaming at me because she wanted me to do something about it, but what was I going to do about it? I didn't give a shit. The kid pissed him off! Man, it was awesome! It was a completely premeditated action and when everyone was screaming and crying he just stayed calm, cool, and collected. He didn't give a shit about the other people. I taught the kid well."

Instantly my heart sank and my head started reeling in all different kinds of directions ranging from past conversations with stupid egotistical academics that argue evil doesn't exist to time I spent as a teacher where a kid pulled out a pair of scissors from his pocket, stabbed another student in the hand, and got away with it because he was "ADHD." I drove back to the office with a subtle sense of horror lingering in the back of my mind, along with the sound of my dad's voice saying, "When are you going to learn that people aren't good?" And my usual need to rise up and speak on behalf of all I perceive to be good and right was completely disabled because... what can be said to the person who takes pride in his child's premeditated act of violence? What can be said to the man who thinks good parenting is bringing forth a child with a taste for blood? What can be said to the person who has no respect for life? What can be said to someone who would spit on me in an attempt to douse my light because he prefers darkness? And damn it... I hate it when I hit a block wall with nothing but a soft fleshy fist that is easily broken. I hate it when I have moments where I think, "This person is a lost cause, a waste of time, a danger to society and the lives around him, including you and your own beautiful little light of a child, so keep your distance and don't bother."

It's obvious that this ran through my mind the rest of the afternoon and evening. It has taken me all this time to collect my erratic thoughts long enough to make something of it. When I think of him, my mind's eye sees nothing but darkness -- not a single spark of light and no hope of one. And the same people that would call me an angel would call him a demon. And the more charismatic lot that call themselves Christian would blame the work of "The Evil One" and do their best to exorcise the demons from him. And the bleeding heart liberals would say it isn't his fault because he was abused as a child. And the champions of postmodernism, cozy in the safe surroundings of the university, would call me close minded and say that this is his truth and there is no such thing as evil. And the clinical psychiatrists would give him Anti-Social Disorder and prescribe a few pills and send him to group therapy. And the court systems would let him off the hook because he's a victim of society. And I sit here knowing that he is a proud human that thrives off of his own destructive behavior and the destructive behavior of others.

"When are you going to learn that people aren't good?" ...lingers and lingers in the corners of my mind. And this is the reason I entered into the Martial Arts, but even as we learn to break necks and destroy life we are taught that life is precious and that becomes more and more obvious as we learn how easy it is to snuff it out. It takes more effort to make something grow and become fruitful and prosperous than it does to destroy it, and so we must do what we can to protect and preserve it. And why is it that anyone would want to do anything other than make life grow into something beautiful?

And as I ask that I hear the Principal I worked for saying, "Pandora, as you enter into graduate school and move forward with your life, I want you to remember that people like you are the backbone of society. We need you, so don't lose hope and don't lose heart." And I hear my friends at the mortgage company smiling at one of my more naive moments saying, "This is why we love you, Pandora. You're down here in the mud with the rest of us, and yet somehow you're still lingering high above where we can't see what you're looking at." And I hear the voice of my daughter saying, "I love you, Mom. You're my hero. And someday I want to be an astronomer so I can name a constellation after you." And I hear the voices of many whose lights are flickering, and many more whose lights have turned into warming fires, and more still that shine like beacons through the fog and yes... we are the backbones of society. And yes, not all people are good, but not all people are bad. So, like a million points of light, I guess it's our job to shine for those who are looking for it and for those who are just like us -- occasionally lost in the darkness, breaking a fist or two on the block walls we blindly run into.

Happy Monday!

It’s probably cliché to sit here and ramble on about how loathsome Mondays are to me, but it hit me sometime this morning as I drove to the office how much I hate them and how I never take the time to think about hating them or why. To make matters worse, I’ve had two people approach me this morning and say, “Happy Monday!”

What?! What’s that about? No one ever comes over to me and says "Happy Monday," but the one Monday I spend my twenty minute drive thinking about how much I hate Mondays two people come up and say that to me? What is this, some kind of bad joke?

To make matters worse, one of them was the same person who said, "Happy Friday!" two days ago! I guess I shouldn’t be annoyed when someone says Happy Friday, but, right now, I can't help it. Want to know why? Because it’s pointless. Don’t tell me Happy Friday when you’re the same person who’s going to come up to me and say Happy Monday two days later! Fridays and Mondays aren’t even in the same ball park of happiness so they can’t both be happy!

Please, people, please…

Anyway, I decided that I hate Mondays mostly because it’s like ripping a stream of morphine from my vein and forcing me to get up and put on the face I hate to wear the most – the business face. All weekend long I’ve been allowed to dress and talk and act the way I want, and suddenly I have to wear what the proverbial they tell me to; I have to speak the way they think is acceptable; I have to think the way they pay me to; and I have to weigh in to their standard of success. This isn’t new, this is stuff we all do, regularly, it’s just that by Tuesday through Friday we've grown numb to it again. But after two days off, Monday flies in like a bad hangover with or without the pleasurable party the night before, like the unhappy jerk back into reality from the greatest of dreams – Free To Be.

Happy Monday… please… More like, Happy Reminder That This Is The Start Of Yet Another Week That You Don’t Get To Face As The Writer You Keep Thinking You’re Supposed To Be.

What I've Heard

I have heard nothing from the Leadership. To me, a good Leader is one that knows how to say things like "thank you" and "good job" and "well done" when you've gone the extra mile and done something special. A "thank you" can at least be said when you've done a task that is normally their own and you did it specifically so they could have a break. Maybe it's that you've done the task too well, eh? Maybe it's that the Leadership is riddled with insecurity and instead of thank you they are overcome with jealousy and wish you weren't standing up there doing their job so well. Maybe, instead of being thankful they have someone like you on their team they're wishing you would fall and break your leg because your success, even though it contributes to the same cause and effort they've been in charge of and asked you to contribute to, makes them burn with envy on the inside as opposed to joy in your accomplishment. That's really too bad too. A good mentor is one that takes pride in the success of the student and makes sure that student knows they have done well. It surprises me, sometimes, how some people are considered Leaders when they really have no clue what that means.

I have heard that Mr. Toe Nail (I gave him that name because he loves to clip his toenails over the garabge can in his cubicle) thinks he hurt his back while trying to lift 800 pounds at the gym. Seriously? 800 pounds? Doing what? Squats? He’s such a Rock Eater. Thinks he’s Mr. Universe. He went and got veneers or whatever those things are on his teeth and now they stick out from his mouth like a overly white overbite. I’m sure he thinks he’s hot though. He has this wall paper background on his computer of himself with two dudes snow skiing. They all have their shirts off. The other two guys look pretty average, but Rock Eater looks like he eats a dozen eggs for breakfast and a barrel of creatine and he’s flexing his pectoralis majors and puffing himself out like some sort of quail in mating season. bleck… He nauseates me. For the past week or so he’s been on the phone with some lender in New York. Apparently he’s trying to buy a boat (in a feeble attempt to appease his succubus wife) and for whatever reason he couldn’t qualify for a loan out here. To get a loan from the lender in New York, he had to show some sort of part-time residency or some crap. So he found some online university based out of New York and registered for classes just to get a stupid loan for a $70,000 boat. Really? Are you kidding me? The admin assistant asked him what class he signed up for and he said, “Blogging.” She asked if he was actually going to take the course and he said, “Pfft… no.” This guy is truly a dunderhead. I should be glad he isn’t going to follow through with that class because he may run across my blog and find himself as the subject matter for one of my rants. Every day he looks like he’s wearing a new pair of shoes – nice shoes, money shoes, TRENDY shoes… idiot. Apparently his wife is having some sort of mid-life crisis (mid-life crisis is psychobabble for self-centered idiocy). I guess she used to be fat and within the past year she lost all kinds of weight. Still unhappy with her appearance, she asked her husband to buy her a new set of bosoms, which he did, along with a complete reconstruction in the area below the belt (so she could feel virginal again), a nose job, a face lift, and a new tattoo. A few months back he bought her a new Mercedes, as well as a new truck of some sort for himself, and now he’s buying her a boat because the one they already have isn’t as flashy as she would like it to be. After all of this, he is constantly crying to the secretary about his wife's infidelity. Really? Seriously? What a shock! You know, it’s stories like this that help me understand why “good” people (that is people that don’t commit crimes like rape and murder etc.) are still lost because obviously they just don’t get it. Vanity is one of the seven deadly sins, after all, and no one ever thinks about that. Vanity, Greed, Laziness, Envy, Pride, Gluttony, Lust, and Wrath… no one thinks about these things too much because most of them are internal, easily hidden from the external human eye, but… they’re all one way tickets to your own personal doom if one isn’t careful. No one is perfect, we all have our things, but I am convinced that if anyone is driving the highway to Hell, no matter how “good” of a citizen they think themselves to be, it is the people that refuse to look inward and find a deeper meaning within the self and a purpose to their lives beyond the material and the external. Idiots.

Speaking of external, I have heard that my hair looks nice today.

I have heard, for certain, that my current health insurance plan is no longer going to be offered after this month.

I have heard, that the Land Department will experience no further lay-offs for the remainder of this fiscal year.

I have heard that the axe is going to fall on the rest of the employees later this month.

I have heard that Sunshine’s mother (who is only two years older than me) is dying of cancer and she has no health insurance to help her even with the pain. This makes me sad. These are moments when I wish I had an arsenal of money to help the people I care about. When I first started working for the mortgage company and I started seeing the money come in, I created this plan in my head and I called it “The Arsenal Of Funds.” I was good at selling loans and I always believed God “paid” me well for my honesty in a business that was just a tad on the corrupt side. I was making more than enough to pull myself out of the hole and set myself up for a “successful” financial future. During that time I had to evaluate what was going to be most important to me. I had come from nothing for so long and been around family and friends with nothing for so long, I didn’t want to become one of the idiots that went overboard with the material things. This was when I decided I would make a comfortable space for myself and my daughter and the rest would pile up in the “arsenal” so I could help out my people whenever they got stuck – like Sunshine and her mother. She told me today that her mother has stage three cancer and her only shot at sending the cancer into remission is to have chemo treatments once a week until remission becomes apparent. One treatment, without health insurance, is $20, 000 dollars. (Maybe Obama has a point? Or maybe the government can't afford another debt like $20,000 a week for numerous people without insurance? Or maybe people like Mr. Toe Nail should send $70,000 Sunshine's way?) Sunshine, of course, is in tears and I, for once, have no clue what to say. The best I could come up with is, “I’m sorry, honey. Feel like going to lunch with me today or tomorrow? My treat.” Inside my head though, I could still see The Arsenal Of Funds that never came to pass.

I have heard people coming and going from their desks, depending on the time and the reason I sometimes do the same.

Lesson In Fund Raising

Yesterday a dude down the hall sends out this mass email that says, “It’s that time of year again, folks. My daughter’s school is on the fund raising trail again and I am now selling Entertainment Coupon Books. Please come see me if you’re interested.” So I stare at the email and think to myself, “Dang it! I know Hope is going to be coming home with one of those too and I can’t hit anybody up for her cuz this guy beat me to it!”

This morning Hope sits down at the table and plops the coupon book down in front of her:

Hope: We’re selling the entertainment books again, Mom.

Pandora: Aaaa! I knew it was coming! I was going to bring it to work but yesterday another guy brought his daughter’s in and so we’re out of luck.

Hope: You were going to try to sell some to the people at work? Oh Mom! That would’ve gotten me the portable dvd player for sure!

Pandora: Portable dvd player? How many do you have to sell for that?

Hope: 55 books.

Pandora: Well, I doubt I would’ve been able to get 55 sold for you, but it would’ve been more than the usual one you sell because I’m the only one that ever buys anything from you. Haha…

Hope: Yes… I know.

Pandora: Do you even get a prize for that?


Hope: …a lame one. Last year I got a giant pen.

Pandora: (smiles at Hope) …a giant pen? I think I remember that.

Hope: Yep. Wanna know what lame prize I’ll get this year when you buy this from me?

Pandora: What is it?

Hope: A six to seven foot blow up balloon.


Pandora: …

Hope: A seven foot blow up balloon, Mom. …a seven foot long balloon… What am I going to do with a seven foot long balloon?


Pandora: Hahahaha… I don’t know honey.

Hope: Want to know what I’ll get if I sell five books?

Pandora: Sure.

Hope: …a giant wobbly pen. (she looks at the prize list and dryly reads the description) “The Giant Wobbly Pen: watch it wobble and bobble as you write while doing your homework.” (she looks up at me blankly) Want to know what I get if I sell ten to fifteen books?

Pandora: Ok.

Hope: I get to have the seven foot balloon, the giant wobbly pen, and a fuzzy face cube.

Pandora: …a what?

Hope: …a fuzzy face cube.

Pandora: …a fuzzy face cube?

Hope: (turns the prize sheet around and points to a picture of a red fuzzy cube with a smiley face and a large tuft of yellow fuzzy “hair” coming out of the top) … a fuzzy face cube. (stares at Pandora exasperated)


Pandora: Hahahahaha! What? You’re not excited about the possibility of receiving any of these things?

Hope: (turns the prize sheet back around so she can look at it) …a fuzzy face cube, Mom. It’s a fuzzy face cube, a giant wobbly pen, and a seven foot balloon that I have to blow up myself. (she puts the prize sheet down on the table and starts eating her cereal) No. No, Mom. I am not excited about these.

Pandora: Hahahahahaha… Oh Hope… you make me laugh. And how many do you have to sell to get the dvd player? 55?

Hope: Yes, 55.

Pandora: And how much do these books sell for?

Hope: $30 each.

Pandora: $30? I thought they were $25?

Hope: That was last year’s price. This year they’re $30.

Pandora: Hmmm… well, this is a good life lesson right here. Remember when I used to work for the mortgage company?

Hope: Yeah.

Pandora: Do you remember when I explained what it meant to work for commission? Meaning, I sell a loan and the company gives me a percentage of the money they make from the loan I sell?

Hope: Yeah, I remember.

Pandora: Well, when schools do this they’re doing two things: first, they’re trying to raise extra money so they can take care of a few extra things around the school and second, they’re giving you guys a taste of what it’s like to work in the land of sales. I could go to Target right now and buy a portable dvd player for $100. If you sell 55 books for $30 a piece you just made $1650 in sales. So if you get a $100 dvd player as commission for your sales, they’re giving you about 6% of what you made for them.

Hope: (stares at me deep in thought and then she looks down at the prize sheet) It is a lot of work, and I already have homework to do and soccer practice. You would think they could at least come up with better prizes than wobbly pens and fuzzy face cubes.

Pandora: Hahahahahahaha…

Passing Thoughts

I've been sitting here for thirty minutes, staring at the blank screen. I keep thinking and thinking -- an image here, a concept there, but coming up short. I keep seeing a woman lying in her bed, fetal position, weeping for some reason unknown, and I want to write about her but, much like her, I'm not sure what to say.

I find myself thinking about the artist in California sitting on his couch staring at a giant canvas -- a blank canvas, the same giant blank canvas he's been staring at since August, and I understand. I see shades of murky red and murky green in some strange swirling pattern like root and heart that have lost their place but, as with the rest of my thoughts, it comes to little more than a passing vision.

If this hand were able, I would paint my mind... and if this mind were able I would think of something good.

The clock is ticking and Hendrix sings, "the hour is getting late."

The guy next door plunks away at his acoustic, doing little to inspire me. But somewhere, about twenty minutes East of here, I know a mesmerizing musician fills his home with a sound I'd give anything to hear. I would lie on his living room floor and listen, just close my eyes and listen to the sound of emotion passing through his fingers onto a set of six strings.

If only I could ride that wave long enough to tap in and create something new.

And then I see the twenty-something girl that's made of gold, thinking herself little more than tarnished brass. And I can see her tucking in the three children she saved from Hell two days ago. And I can see her lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering how she's going to care for them all, how she's going to make it through. And I say a prayer for them all because her story is far from over and is waiting to be written.

And I think of the people that fear "The Evil One" and I want to say something they should all remember because it has a familiar ring to it and it goes something like this: Whom shall I fear?

I'm wondering of my friend on the East Coast, finding herself lost in the world of academia, and I'm hoping she smiles tonight. I'm hoping she finds herself sitting in good company with a glass of wine and good conversation. I'm hoping she realizes that she is in the perfect place at the perfect time.

And I've been thinking about The Yellow Wallpaper and I'm thinking if I could have a conversation with Charlotte Perkins Gilman she might agree that today, though she is different, the woman is still trapped behind the wallpaper; it's just a wallpaper of a different kind.

And my little girl, fast becoming a young lady, sleeps away... as I should be doing. She grows a little bit more and changes a little bit more with each passing moment. And a clock of a different kind is tick tick ticking and I fight the need to panic because time is running out. Each day with her is a treasure and I am thankful for it.

And like my thoughts, time just passes and passes and I am unable to harness any of these thoughts for longer than a fleeting moment so they are written as just that -- passing thoughts. Sooner or later, I will learn to stop this brain of mine long enough to focus on the plot. But tonight... this will have to do.

Midday Ramblings

Have you ever noticed how some people need to take a break from the Crest Whitening Strips for a while? I mean, really… some of these people need to spend the next thirty days drinking 8 cups of coffee per day just to bring the gleam back down to a non-blinding level. (and god help us if the same people visit the tanning salon regularly)

I’m glad I’m not 6 feet tall.

I forgive the person that can’t help but explode in the public restroom because they’re suffering and most likely mortified, but I show no mercy to the constipated soul who bears no shame while grunting in the public restroom.

I hate standing next to women that are six feet or more, particularly in a business arena where I’m trying to impress others with my intellectual prowess. Somehow, this makes me feel like a barking Chihuahua beside a silent Mastiff. And I have this terrible feeling, despite constant eye contact, the guy is pretending to listen to me while he’s thinking, “Damn, that woman is gigantic!”

When Obama took office, government control of private industry was at 34%. When he passed the bailout it became 40%, and if he passes the healthcare proposed it will be 45%. 47% of Russia’s private industry is government controlled. Hmmm… I’ve always idolized the success of Russian economy, haven’t you? And… Russia has a McDonald’s at least in Moscow, don’t they? Egg McMuffins abound!!!

Maybe I’ll go buy some Crest Ultra Powered Whitening Strips. I hear they come with a special UV ray light to shine on them. Awesome! I’ll be able to compete with my plastic neighbor in no time!

There’s a room full of engineers behind me right now. They love to make themselves laugh with math jokes. They are a different breed of human.

I just acquired an easement from the Mormons. I was told that was next to impossible.

We’re having a going away luncheon for one of the assistants today. She’s heading off to Law School next week. Lucky lady is moving to Denver. She and her man are moving out there together. She asked me if I would ever come visit her. I have a feeling a trip to Denver is more than possible.

The Land Department is known for eating. I’m not sure why, but these people love to eat and therefore they often find reasons for pot lucks. Today’s reason is the assistant's departure. They’re setting up the food in the conference room behind me (yes, the one the mathematical comedians just left) and the miscellaneous aromas are making my stomach growl.

I bet there’s a lot more than salad and broccoli in there.

My hair could use a trim.

The vultures are gathering behind me.

Bombastic Babbling Boy is also standing outside my cube trying to sound smart again.

The food is glorious. One could probably eat until they passed out. Free food heaven. Everything from chicken to sushi to pasta to veggies to pita sandwiches and fruit and crazy desserts and deviled eggs and hummus and… well… more stuff that I can’t remember. Land eats well.

Hummus sounds like a game we might have fun playing.

…some kind of crazy chicken stuffed dumpling thing that was absolutely awesome…

"…some people drink Pepsi, some people drink Coke, the wacky morning dj says democracy’s a joke…" (from Comfort Eagle -- Cake)

Women that squeal “HIIIIIiiiii…” and then hug each other kinda nauseate me.


…I’ve certainly had better sushi but…still good.

…the strange pasta dish lacks flavor.

Pasta dish number two also lacks flavor.

Come on people! If you’re going to make pasta you must DOUSE it with flavor!

I think, when attending a potluck, it’s best to take small bits of everything. The one thing I think I’ll start doing next time is writing down the names of the people who made what and take notes such as follows:

Jane’s pasta: lacks flavor

Jan’s pasta: lacks flavor

Cowboy: he brought Popeye Chicken. Guess it’s amazing he brought anything.

Louise’s Jalapeño Cornbread: awesome…

You know, something like that. So next time I can avoid the less flavorful dishes.

I ran from the dessert table.

My favorite thing was the pita bread stuffed with some kind of chicken salad goodness. That was yummy.

I’m done now.

Angels or Aliens?

So I was standing in my closet this morning, staring at my clothes, trying to decide what to wear. And I was standing there thinking about wearing the green blouse but then decide against it. And as I was dressing, I listened to the long string of random banal thoughts about bills and groceries and laundry when suddenly I heard myself think, “I can’t wait until my shift on Earth is done.” And just as my mind moved onto the next thought, I stopped myself and said, “What? I can’t wait until my shift on Earth is done? Did I really just say that to myself?” So I stood there for a minute and started laughing at myself for that comment.

It really was a strange thing to say. And it wasn’t said out of depression, nor did it have some suicidal tone to it. I didn’t say, “life on Earth,” I said, “shift on Earth,” as if I were some being from another realm sent here for a purpose, a job, a task at hand like garbage detail or something -- as though I were some kind of celestial so and so who would much rather be working a shift on planet Zircon but somehow got the short end of the stick and got stuck here on Earth. And as I was listening to the mundane meanderings of my mind, I had a moment where I realized I sounded so much like a regular human I disgusted myself and said, “I can’t wait until my shift on Earth is done,” implying a return to the glory of my celestial splendor and a shift I truly deserve.

Really, if I didn’t actually have laundry and dishes to do right now, I could run with this one for quite some time.

If I told this story to a New Agie, I imagine they would say it was my “angel existence” that made the comment. Some people believe that a certain number of us are actually angels in human form, sent to Earth for a purpose, and not all of us know who we are yet. If I told them about this moment, I would most likely be told that I’m “awakening,” that I’m starting to realize there is more to my life on Earth and my purpose here than all of the mundane thoughts that were rolling through my mind at that specific time.

Another response might be to say it was my “higher self,” which simply means that it is the part of me that is fully aware of who I am and what my purpose is in this lifetime , and the fact that I spoke to myself in that manner would mean that I am getting closer to becoming all that my higher self is. (Sounds somewhat similar to the angel people idea, but it isn’t. The higher self is just me, completely human but fully aware of all my talents and abilities and unafraid to foster the qualities of myself necessary to hone those talents and abilities and master them all. The higher self is able to shake off all of the things that make humans stay put in their day to day mindless existence and live the purposeful life The Universe intended.)

Then, of course, we cannot forget the people who would prattle on about past lives and that I’m something they call an old soul that has traveled many lifetimes to get to this one. They would say the voice that spoke up this morning stems from a life that was quite possibly spent on Planet Zircon (and, I'm totally making that planet up, by the way, so don't go searching around for it in some galaxy far far away... although... I'm sure some of these same people would argue that since I gave it a name that proves it exists, or something like that) where I floated about in a white glittery gossamer gown and laid upon the grass in the quiet meadow where I wrote volumes of poetry and songs.

Nor can we forget the people that believe right now, this very minute, that I am an alien from Planet Zircon and that I have been encased in this human form for so long I’ve nearly forgotten my extra terrestrial self and completely lost sight of the assignment the mother planet sent me out here to do. They would tell me that my name is Astra and that I need to stare long and hard into some kind of crystal prism so I can travel to the nether realms and get in touch with my people in an attempt to remember why I've been given this shift on Earth. (these are also the same people I highly suggest you smile and nod at while they’re speaking to you and then walk away and never speak with them again)

My favorite idea, though, is one I came up with myself (surprise you that I like my own idea best? It really shouldn't). I imagine some poor Angel of God who was assigned to be my Guardian since the day I was born. I imagine that she was excited on the day of my birth because she could see all of the potential I have to do great things and she looked forward to helping me foster them. But after 35 years of following me around (making sure I didn't break my neck on the monkey bars when I was a kid at school, making sure I didn't die in that car accident on the freeway, making sure I didn't talk to that idiot at the bar when I was 21, making sure I stayed strong enough to get through my education as a single mother, making sure I followed the right path to the job that would give me enough financial security to free my mind of just enough worry to have room for the imagination) she now sits beside me frustrated because all I do, day in and day out, are the same stupid mundane tasks. And no matter what she tries, no matter what she places in front of me, hoping to spark an inspirational fire in my soul, all she hears come from my mind is, "I shoulda thawed some chicken last night… I’ll just have to pick something up… I hate picking something up… I need to renew my lease… I need to stop by the bank... I need to make the lunches… I need to hurry… I need to pay my car insurance... I need to pay the electric…" And at that moment she couldn't stand it anymore and she plopped down on the edge of my bed and said, "I can't wait until my shift on Earth is done." And when she realized that I actually heard her, she sat up with excitement thinking she may have finally made some sort of breakthrough. Unfortunately for her, I am a skeptical human who thinks people that hear voices other than their own get sent to the asylum and swallow little purple pills every four to six hours. So... I let it go and laugh it off.

...poor thing. She's probably pacing back and forth behind me right now, grumbling to God about what a waste of her talent it is to be assigned to a stupid human like me.

Introducing Bombastic Babbling Boy

Pandora pulls into the parking lot and gets out of her car just as Bombastic Babbling Boy steps out of his and sees her.

Bombastic Babbling Boy: Hey! Top of the morning to you!

Pandora: (polite smile) Yes, good morning.

Bombastic Babbling Boy: I really hate these early mornings, you know? I'm not used to it.

Pandora: It takes a while.

Bombastic Babbling Boy: I just graduated from Law School a few months ago.

Pandora: Oh? That's nice.

Bombastic Babbling Boy: Obviously, I'm not practicing law right now, but I will be. I mean, I plan to, but I'm going to stay here for a while and learn some of this while I look for a place to practice real estate law.

Pandora: Well, that's a good idea.

Bombastic Babbling Boy: Yes, it is a good idea. Make some money while I try to find a real job. Not that this isn't a real job, no offense.

Pandora: None taken.

Bombastic Babbling Boy: (opens the door for her) I guess I should consider myself lucky though. Most of my law school friends are still unemployed, but not me! I actually have money coming in now and that's awesome!

Pandora: (presses the elevator button) Yes, money is always a good thing.

Bombastic Babbling Boy: You're telling me! I was starting to worry about what I was going to eat tomorrow, you know? But not now! But still, I need to be a lawyer, you know? That's what I'm trained to do. Law!

Pandora: Hmm.

Bombastic Babbling Boy: I don't really fit in here much though because I'm so much more educated than everyone else in this place. You know? No offense to you, but people can't keep up with me here because I just know so much more than they do, you know? I mean sure, people have been working in here longer than I have, but they don't know what I know.

Pandora: (takes a good look at him and then steps into the elevator) And what is it, exactly, that you know?

Bombastic Babbling Boy: Well, I went to law school! No one else up here went to law school. Some of these people only have high school educations. Pfft... they don't know what I know.

Pandora: Most of those folks have been in the field for thirty years or more. I'm inclined to say they know plenty that you don't know.

Bombastic Babbling Boy: Ah... there's nothing they can teach me that wouldn't take more than two seconds to learn. High school education vs. law degree? I don't think so. I guess I should've asked you though, you do have a degree, don't you?

Pandora: Yes. I have two.

Bombastic Babbling Boy: Oh! You went to graduate school?

Pandora: (wishing the elevator would hurry) Yes.

Bombastic Babbling Boy: Oh! I didn't know that.

Pandora: Well, as you said, you didn't ask.

Bombastic Babbling Boy: So what's your degree in?

Pandora: (steps out of the elevator) 19th Century Literature

Bombastic Babbling Boy: Oh! 19th century! I know all about the 19th century! (starts following Pandora down the hall) I know all about those guys! Let's see there's that Wordsworth guy... Oh! And that guy that wrote that stupid poem about the Grecian Urn.

Pandora: (two steps ahead of him) Keats.

Bombastic Babbling Boy: Who?

Pandora: Keats wrote the poem about the Grecian Urn.

Bombastic Babbling Boy: Ya! Keats! I like Keats! ...and um, you know... that one guy. What's his name? Something Blake? Was it Walter? Yeah, that's it! Walter! Walter Blake!

Pandora: (steps into her cube, puts her things down) It's William.

Bombastic Babbling Boy: What?

Pandora: (sits in her chair) William Blake. His name is William Blake, not Walter... William.

Bombastic Babbling Boy: Oh! You know him? Well, I knew it was a W. Anyway, that guy sucks! I hate him! I had to write this paper on The Book Of Lika and...

Pandora: (growing a bit irritated) The Book Of ...what?

Bombastic Babbling Boy: Lika. The Book Of Lika, you know. Lika?

Pandora: No, I don't know. I know The Book Of Los, but no Book Of Lika.

Bombastic Babbling Boy: Oh, right! That's right! Los! The Book Of Los! That's the one. Well it sucked! I hated it! It went on and on forever and it made no sense! Yeah, that sucked. Blake really sucks. Don't you think he sucks?

Pandora: (her eyes have now turned to steel) I wrote my Master's Thesis on Blake. So... no. He doesn't, in my opinion, suck.

Bombastic Babbling Boy: (face turns red) Oh, well, I guess you know all about this guy then.

Pandora: Yes, I do. In fact, it could be argued that I may be the one person in this office that knows something you don't know, despite your fancy law degree.

Bombastic Babbling Boy: (chuckles) Heh! You got me there. He still sucks though. I had to write that stupid paper on The Book Of Lika

Pandora: Los

Bombastic Babbling Boy: Los, right, Los, and I hated it! It sucked so bad. And then he wrote that other stupid poem about the Albatross that went on and on. And I hated it!

Pandora: That wasn't Blake.

Bombastic Babbling Boy: What?

Pandora: The stupid albatross poem that went on and on that you hated because it sucked so bad? That wasn't Blake.

Bombastic Babbling Boy: Yes it was!

Pandora: No. You're talking about The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner and that was written by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, not Blake.

Bombastic Babbling Boy: (blank stare) ...oh, well, it still sucked.

Pandora: (turns to face her computer and logs in)

Bombastic Babbling Boy: Oh! You're going to start working now?

Pandora: (without turning around) That's what one does when they come to the office. They work.

Bombastic Babbling Boy: Okay. Well, before I go, you need to know something. You are my new best friend now!

Pandora: Excuse me?

Bombastic Babbling Boy: You're like my new best friend now. You want to know why? Because you're educated, that's why! (big smile)

Pandora: Lucky me?

Bombastic Babbling Boy: I'm just letting you know because I'm going to be doing this for the rest of my time here.

Pandora: What?

Bombastic Babbling Boy: This! (he points between himself and Pandora a few times) I'm going to be doing this for the rest of my time here because you're educated and you're the only one that can keep up with me.

Pandora: ...

Bombastic Babbling Boy: And when I say the rest of my time here I mean the rest of my time here... not just today here... the rest of my time here. (waves his hand around the office)

Pandora: ...

Bombastic Babbling Boy: Ok! See ya later! Have fun doing whatever it is you're doing! (big smile... takes his exit)

Pandora: (stares at her computer) My education mocks me... it does... it truly mocks me...

Halloween ...Bust?

This may be a sign of getting old, but I'd like to know when dressing up for Halloween became synonymous with stepping out as a man's kinky fantasy. Please, someone explain this to me. Last time I checked, dressing up for Halloween meant dressing up as an alter ego, or a favorite character, or the traditional witch or vampire or ghost or something along those lines. Since when does dressing up as Dorothy mean wearing a push-up bra and five inch heeled red pumps with white fishnet stalkings in a blue pinafore dress that barely covers your ass? Seriously... where have I been?

I can't remember the last time I went to a Halloween party. For the past ten years I've been following my daughter around trick-or-treating and making sure the candy isn't filled with arsenic and razor blades. But this year she went to a friend's place for the night and I found myself free on Halloween. I figured I would just spend a quiet evening at home when a last minute party invitation came about. Now, more times than not I would simply say no to something like this, but given the people who invited me and the fact that I hadn't dressed up and celebrated Halloween in years well... why not, right? It might be fun, right? uh...yeah...

Being in a last minute crunch for a costume, I made my way over to one of those "Halloween" stores that open specifically for this occasion. I really didn't have anything particular in mind, but I was certain I could find something in a sea of choices. Unfortunately, my choices boiled down to something between tease and whore. Don't get me wrong, I am far from prude, but sexy is a state of mind and is best conveyed through subtle sophistication, not blatant boob betrayal in an outfit that quite possibly came from the local strip club.

No joke. I walked into the store and went directly to the women's section. As I worked my eyes from one end of the section to the next I found the She Devil, cleavage abounding; the Fallen Angel, cleavage abounding; the Good Angel, cleavage and thighs abounding (I guess the only real difference between good and fallen is that the Fallen Angel shows enough concern to cover the scrapes and bruises her legs acquired after taking a pretty tough fall). Along with Sexy Dorothy there was Sexy Scare Crow, Sexy Tin Woman, Sexy Cowardly Lion, and Sexy Glinda of the North complete with cleavage and derriere (should you happen to bend over to pick up the ping-pong ball from your missed shot in beer pong). There was also Sexy Nascar Girl, Sexy Jane & Judy Jetson, Sexy Wilma Flinstone, Sexy Betty Rubble, as well as your traditional Sexy French Maid, Sexy Nurse, and Sexy School Girl. I could continue on, but I won't. What I will tell you is how completely disgusted I became and how my desire to attend this party grew less and less. As I stared at these costumes and the representation of women presented by these costumes, I couldn't help but think of Freud and Lacan and how badly I hated their theories of women as The Other: women are little more than a figment of a man's imagination and the object of his sexual desire.

I hate to even think of Freud and Lacan. That was a time in my graduate studies of theory that I abhorred and worked tirelessly to dismantle and disprove. Theirs are theories that objectify and oppress women and I always felt that the feminist theorists did little more that perpetuate these theories by continually whining and complaining about it while doing nothing to actually overturn it. And suddenly I found myself face-to-face with the practical reality of two academic schools of thought, and the two that I hated most. As I stood there staring at the Sexy Snow White costume, right next to the Sexy Olive Oil costume, I could only think about the fact that, were I to walk into a party dressed in one of these, I would quite possibly be dressed as some idiot's fantasy and, well, that was not my intent. Halloween means I dress up as my own fantastic idea of some neglected aspect of myself, not some Nimrod's strumpet! And all I could hear in the back of my mind was the voice of that egotistical french man, Jacques Lacan, saying, "the problem of [the woman's] condition is fundamentally that of accepting herself as an object of desire for the man." (pg. 68, Feminine Sexuality, Jacques Lacan)

Here's the deal: I do accept myself as an object of man's desire. Hell, I accept myself as an object of a lesbian's desire. Want to know why I accept that? Because that's life -- plain and simple. I endure the gaping maws of men on a regular basis and it doesn't matter if I'm in an evening gown, a conservative business suit, or a potato sack. It's like Misanthrope says, as long as I can fog up a spoon some dude out there is going to think it's an invitation to a party in my pants. But because I know this, because I accept this, because I understand myself as an "object" it then becomes the burden (if you will) of my existence to create an image of myself above and beyond the "object." And, from where I'm standing, I hardly think this can be accomplished by stepping into a man's reality dressed as one of his favorite sexual fantasies for a Halloween costume party. (if I'm going to dress up as a nurse and play doctor, it isn't going to be in the presence of 20+ people at a party! Seriously... I had to ask myself if I had mistakenly walked into Frederick's Of Hollywood, because it sure didn't feel like Halloween.)

Anyway, after becoming thoroughly annoyed with the costumes and the people, I finally decided my best bet was to go Goth -- you know, rebel against mainstream society the way I did "back in the day." I figured, at least it was Halloween and I was allowed to look as scary and as socially unacceptable as I wanted. If nothing else, I would dress as a creature that could fog up a spoon but wield enough serious juju to do some harm, should someone step out of line. So I donned a black hooded robe, painted my nails black, darkened my hair, painted my pale face with some stylishly dark make-up, wore some beautiful Gothic jewelry and made my way to a party full of people that, aside from two or three, I didn't know.

What I found, when I got there, was a bunch of men that had, for the most part, well thought out costumes -- costumes that showed creativity and character. But the women? Well... there was a Sexy Robin Hood, a Sexy Nascar Girl, a Sexy Pumpkin, a French Maid, a Sexy Wizard Wanda (who apparently teaches at Hogwarts though I've never heard of her), a Sexy Snow Queen (who would die of frost bite the minute she stepped outside), a Sexy Bar Maid, a Sexy Pirate, and some Sexy something with a purple tutu and a top hat that looked like some Broadway reject from 42nd Street. Then, of course, there was me -- the only woman whose costume showed a hint of a figure beneath the black hooded robe that left much to the male imagination.

Needless to say, I did not have a rip-roaring good time. While everyone else ate, drank, and made merry, I sat and wrestled with my overly analytical mind. I sat and wondered why it doesn't occur to these women that they're playing into something that does little for those qualities of the self that will make them continue to feel beautiful and confident and satisfied with their lives once gravity and age set in. I wondered if they have any concept of themselves beyond a man's gaze. I wondered if they ever have moments in their lives where they wish to be recognized for something other than the curves God gave them, or if they simply live, day in and day out, moment by moment, for the drool encrusted masculine gaping maw.

This is not to cast judgment on them, I have memories of myself (particularly in adolescence) where I took notice and pleasure in being the recipient of a man's eyeballing. But I have since learned that an eyeballing isn't exactly a compliment and that lust, more often than not, equates to heartbreak and emptiness. But all of that aside, why is it that a man's costume can exhibit thought and character but the woman's gets lost in translation? If I dress up as Dorothy on Halloween, I dress up as the innocent who realizes, despite all the adventure in the world, there is no place like home. If I dress up as the Nascar Girl, I dress up as a race car fanatic who can rattle off the names of the best drivers and their best times and sure... I'm down with Miller Time too. If I dress up as Marilyn Monroe, I dress up as the woman that loves to feel glamorous and sexy, but the only way you get a glimpse of what's under my dress is if I happen to stand over an air vent. And if I dress up as Robin Hood, I dress up as the character who robs the rich to feed the poor. But somehow, none of those sentiments get through. Somehow, through mainstream media and the perpetuation of theories a very small percentage of us find important enough to study, the character concepts behind all of these costumes have become overshadowed by the seductive glow of tits and ass. hmmm... This is not the Halloween I want for my daughter, the girl who still finds meaning behind the costumes she chooses. (and I'm suddenly very glad she is a tomboy)

Pumpkin Bread

If you read the post My Craft Is Words, then, if nothing else, you will see my point.

I exit the elevator and step out onto the floor, my hands full of pumpkin bread. As I head to my desk to put everything down before I head out on my search to find out where I'm to leave the baked goods, well, the following will explain it all:

Ladies Man: (stops in his tracks) What's this, Pandora? You actually baked something?

Pandora: Yes, yes I did.

Ladies Man: (smirks) Can you even cook?

Pandora: Don't get excited. It came from a box.

Ladies Man: Damn it, Pandora! You just ruined it for me! I was about to put you in goddess category but now I'm not even going to eat that!

Pandora: Shut up. Besides, in what mythological tale have you ever read about a goddess that cooks.

Ladies Man: Huh... Good point.


I drop my bag and such at my desk and back out of my cube to see Sugar walking down the hall with a cart full of bake sale stuff.
Sugar: Oh my god! You baked something?

Pandora: Yes.

Sugar: Oh my god! You never do anything for these things!

Pandora: Yes... I'm well aware of that.

Sugar: Is it good?

Pandora: It came from a box that Trader Joe's puts out, so I suspect it is, yes.

Sugar: Bah ha ha ha ha ha! Well, Trader Joe's is good stuff, as long as you didn't burn it or something.

Pandora: Well, I see you pushing a cart, what did you bake?

Sugar: Girl, I don't bake for this shit! Pushing the cart and helping set up is as good as it gets.

Pandora: Yes, well, while you're making fun of my boxed baking abilities, cart pusher, can you tell me where I'm supposed to put this?

Sugar: No idea really. I was told to go down the hall here and I would see it.


So I start walking down the hall and see Ms. Guilt Trip.

Ms. Guilt Trip: (gigantic smile) Good morning Pandora! You didn't forget!

Pandora: (thankful she didn't notice/care I didn't have a cheese cake in my hand) Nope, thanks to your last minute reminder.

Ms. Guilt Trip: (still smiling) You can put it on the table over there.


So I place it on the table right by the pumpkin bread label. As I start to walk away I notice Santino, who has basically been my mentor all this time, fooling around in an ice chest at the far end of the table.

Pandora: What? Are you contributing to this too Santino?

Santino: (in his Brooklynese) Well ya! I do it every year. Pumpkin Ice Cream. You bring sumthin in Pandora?

Pandora: Yeah, I made some pumpkin bread.

Santino: Really? Dats not yer style. (he looks at the table and I point to it) Any good?

Pandora: I made an extra batch for my daughter. She thinks it is.

Santino: Huh. Who'd a thought Pandora woulda bake sumthin.

Pandora: Yes, that seems to be the topic of conversation this morning.


So I went back to my desk, checked my emails and my voice messages, organized the to do list for the day, and after about twenty minutes I went to the bake sale intending to taste my own bread. When I got there, all of it was gone. I could only assume that meant it was a pass. The afternoon came and went. Around 4:30 everyone started to head home and no one had said a word until...

Santino: Eh! Pandora!

Pandora: (turns around) What's up?

Santino: I'm headin' home. Just wanted you to know I ate sum of dat bread you baked. You done good, Kid. Dat was sum good stuff. Have a nice weekend, eh?

Pandora: (smiles) Thanks, Santino. You do the same.


So... it may not have been from scratch, but the mentor wouldn't lie to me (he makes no bones about telling me where and when I've messed up) so I know it was good. I also know, it was a historical moment in the Land Department. Pandora, even if it was from a box, showed, if nothing else, some half-assed home-making skills. ;-)

My Craft Is Words

If there is a stereotype of women I wish I could shake it's the one that says I must be good at things like sewing, knitting, crafting, and baking. Just because there are certain genetic cues in my physical being that make me a woman there is nothing that states those same cues mean I am a) naturally inclined to be good at the above things and b) find great joy in being good at those things.

There is a group of women in my office that sit in the conference room behind me nearly every day at lunch and they craft things like Christmas ornaments and Thanksgiving baskets and such. And it's a wonderful thing that they are doing, since all of this will be sold at some charity event with proceeds going to charity. But they have done this every year that I have been there and there are two consistencies: 1) I am never in there crafting with them and 2) there are never any men in there with them either.

I bring this up because these women seem to take it personal somehow that I don't craft with them. I always smile and say something along the lines of, "I'm not good at that kind of stuff," and then they just give me a blank stare as if I'm lying and what I really mean is, "I'm too good to hang out with you ladies." This irritates the hell out of me. First of all, I'm not lying! I'm terrible at that kind of thing! Ask my art teachers from kindergarten on, I am terrible at making things with my hands! Seriously, the first time I realized I sucked at crafting things was in the seventh grade when mine was the only paper mache butterfly that looked as though it might drop bombs over Nagasaki. And come on ladies! You are the same women I make smile and laugh at the lunch table, office happy hours, and business meetings. My craft is WORDS and that's about all I'm good at. You need me to write a letter for you? I'll do it. You need me to help with your child's reading and writing? I love it. You need me to argue a point for you and make sure you win that argument? HELL YEAH! I'll do that any day of the week. You need someone to help make a dozen doilies? uh... sorry, I have to go floss my teeth, it's very important that I keep my gums healthy.

So... the reason this is on my mind at 7 in the morning is because, well, it's 7 in the morning and this blog post should be delivered to you right now but it won't be because I didn't post it on time. Why? Because I couldn't say no when one of those same knitting circle ladies walked up and asked if I would bake for the Pumpkin Bake Sale today. Yeah... me... baking for the department bake sale. Granted, I am a good cook, but baking is not my specialty. It takes extra time and it has a different feel to it than cooking a meal. And I'm a busy woman with a schedule that strangles me like a boa constrictor sometimes and the last thing I need to do is stand around the kitchen for hours and bake. However, the minute the word "uh..." came out of my mouth that lady focused a stare on me that I'm pretty sure could send me to Hell if I said no. I could see it in her eyes. Her non-verbal cues said to me, "You never craft with us, you never knit with us, and I'll be damned if you don't bake with us. I like you Pandora, but after this you will be on my list!" So, I'm sure you understand when I tell you I signed myself up to bake.

I planned on baking this past weekend. I do have an excellent recipe for a pumpkin cheese cake and I started to see it as an opportunity to show the ladies that I am not totally a home-making outcast. The problem was that I completely forgot about the stupid bake sale until yesterday at four thirty, as the same lady was walking past my cube and said, "Don't forget the bake sale tomorrow, Pandora. Have a good night!"

ARGH!!! At that moment I stopped what I was doing, sat back in my chair and just stared at my computer screen. There was no possible way I could bake that stupid cheese cake last night and have it come out as though I actually know what I'm doing in the kitchen. My boss, gentleman that he is, walked in and said, "Bring in a frozen cheese cake. That's what I'm doing." And I'm thinking, "Yes, but you don't have the same chromosomes as me and they don't look at you as though you belong on the Island Of Misfit Toys." So, the best solution I could come up with was to go to Trader Joe's and buy two boxes of their awesome pumpkin bread mix and bring it to the bake sale hoping they all forget that Pumpkin Cheese Cake is written by my name. That was the easiest way out, and I'm sure the clan of "made it from scratch" ladies will still frown upon me somehow, but I guess they need to learn the hard way that it isn't personal... I... just belong on the island of misfit toys.

(Disclaimer: I did not want to break my daily posting streak and I wrote this as fast as possible without review for errors. If you must grade it, at least grade content separately from grammar. -- Pandora)

Something For Nothing

The air is heavy lately -- thick and weighted with a sense of doom. The economy here seems particularly bad. The majority of my neighbors are now unemployed. The mom & pop shops close one right after the other -- strip malls left with nothing but The Good Will. The college degrees now work the check out line and the drive thru. Shirts and ties outweigh the usual down trodden look at the bus stop. My own company goes into its third wave of layoffs, and everyone I know wonders when it will be safe to breathe again.

Ah... America... dare I say something stupid like how the mighty have fallen?

I am no stranger to this heavy feeling, this ominous weight that impedes forward motion. I have learned, in years gone by, to create a light in the darkness to stay alive; I have clung to the promise of light to find peace in the midst of struggle. But this time is different. This time the darkness lies in the world around me, an external darkness, one in which I feel the lost dreams of others, the fear of others, the sorrow, the depression, and it lingers in the air we are all breathing.

How can one take a cleansing breath if the air is toxic?

People count on me to stay positive, to tell a story, to make them smile. How do I explain to them that even I sometimes hold a pen between my teeth to dupe my brain into happiness? How do I explain to them that they, the people, are the source of my stories and my sense of humor? How do I tell them that I can't laugh when I feel like crying alongside them? To them I am The Smiling Lady with a sense of faith and a bit of insight -- a Dear Abby with a little more style. But lately, I have wanted to stay in my bed and not move just like everyone else. Who am I, really?

Even the man in the White House.. King Of Hope... Prince Of Change... hmm... the best he can do is offer more government which, to me, does little more than add to the depressed state of the union. "The United States are destined either to surmount the gorgeous history of feudalism, or else prove the most tremendous failure of time"(Democratic Vistas: Walt Whitman! Where are you when we need you?).

The best stories I have, as of late, are all past tense: stories I should've written months ago. Now I work to revive them. I burn the midnight oil and pray that Blake was right, that Jesus is the imagination, The Great Creator, and He will come to save our souls through inspiration. Yet, I stare at the blank page and this is what I come up with.

"Few are aware how the great literature penetrates all, gives hue to all, shapes aggregates and individuals, and, after subtle ways, with the irresistible power, constructs, sustains, demolishes at will" (Democratic Vistas, Whitman).

What happens when the light has lost its luster and the remaining salt adds no flavor? People go blind and the palate grows dull.

I am sorry. I am, tonight anyway, at a loss.

For everything there is a season, and for the majority of us, this may very well be our time to mourn.

The Lunch Room: Politically Incorrect Love Fantasies

Misanthrope: (sits down at Pandora's table) Heya.

Pandora: (looks up from her book) How goes the battle?

Misanthrope: The cubicle is winning thus far. You?

Pandora: Aye... the great oppressor with no ceiling and no real door. Haven't seen you in a while. How was your weekend? Any lovely ladies to speak of?

Misanthrope: (speaks through the side of his nearly full mouth) Weekend was, eh... Nothing significant. No significant ladies to speak of. What about you? Secret admirers? Special Valentines?

Pandora: Eh, I continue to be a menace to myself and society, so no special valentines or admirers. Although, I did come home the other night and found that flowers had been delivered to me from some no name sender. I have a stalker (or did have) that I threatened with police last December, so I assumed it was another stupid wooing attempt from him. However, as I learned this morning, the flowers actually came from a guy that works at the Walgreens by my house – which means he had to go looking through files, etc., to find my contact info. I am…disturbed, even though it may be harmless.

Misanthrope: Ooh, a Walgreens admirer? You must have made quite the impression on him! Careful with those drug people… (takes a bite of his sandwich) they have access to some scary stuff… (chews a bit more) Never accept a drink from a pharmacist!

Pandora: Yeah, I’m not sure what to do about this problem with love (or the lack thereof) that I’m having lately. All I did to the Walgreen guy was smile and make small talk, maybe a joke or two whenever I went in to pay for things. Seriously... It frustrates me! Did I ever tell you how I had to stop going to the Circle K by my house?

Misanthrope: (shakes his head and grins as he continues to chew his sandwich)

Pandora: Pfft... ya! I had to stop going to my favorite Circle K for my morning coffee because the old bald guy behind the counter started creeping me out! He somehow thought I was coming to see him every morning and not coming for the coffee.

Misanthrope: (peeking over his water cup) Does anyone truly go to Circle K for "the coffee?" I thought that's why you went to Starbucks. Are you sure it wasn't for the Bald Guy?

Pandora: (glares at him)

Misanthrope: What? I wouldn't know! You're the coffee fan, not me! I just... well... I'm sorry. Please... continue.

Pandora: I'm being dead serious right now, Misanthrope. I think I'm cursed! I had gone to dinner back in August with a guy that bored me to tears and after that he proceeded to stalk me and forced me to get mean! And I hate to get mean.

Misanthrope: You do? I thought you thrived on it.

Pandora: And you know the story about Bombastic Babbling Boy.

Misanthrope: Oh yes, that was a good one. The one where you enjoyed getting all, what did you call yourself, Ice Queen or something? Oh, but what am I thinking. You didn't enjoy being mean that time.

Pandora: Well, I did enjoy that one, but that was different, and you know it. But these things happen alot and it’s really starting to drive me nuts. What did I do to deserve this crap and how do I make it stop?

Misanthrope: (starts to unwrap his cookie) No clue. Thought about growing some hooves?

Pandora: Maybe I'll just let myself go.

Misanthrope: ...let yourself go?

Pandora: Yeah, you know, eat McDonalds three times a day, stop dressing nice, stop taking care of myself. If I did that the Circle K Baldy wouldn't feel the call to "meet my needs," so to speak. I won't have to get flowers from some random Walgreen guy that mistakes kindness as an invitation for romance. I won't have to sick the police on the guy that likes to show up unannounced at my house because he's convinced, I love him I just don't know it yet. If I have to be alone because God has somehow seen fit that I never meet my match, then I’ll have to make it so these idiots stop tormenting me. I can’t stand it anymore

Misanthrope: (wipes the crumbs from his hands and crumples his napkin) Unfortunately, going large wouldn’t stop them -- men, that is. There are those that prefer ‘em big. And I was going to suggest wearing a ring on the ol’ marriage finger, but then, there are those that prefer ‘em that way too. My point is, you’re screwed. There’s no way around it. There will always be men. I know. As a man myself, though often ashamed to admit my membership, I can say that we will be rationally or irrationally attracted to pretty much anything that moves at some point… if it can fog up a spoon, you know? Boost McDonalds stock, if you will. But it won’t help. Resistance is futile.

Pandora: (sits back in silent thought) What if I go all natural and never shower or shave in addition to the fatness?

Misanthrope: Still no. Mountain men everywhere will still go gaga… I’m sorry. No chance.

Pandora: (...sigh...) So what you’re saying is that I may as well just stay the same since nothing is going to change anyway.

Misanthrope: (raises an affirmative eyebrow)

Pandora: (plops her elbows on the table and purposely stirs her coffee) Life...it mocks me... regularly.

Misanthrope: Me? I'm the opposite. I could go get an amazing beach body through hours upon hours of tormenting exercise and get cosmetic surgery to look like Brad Pitt, and I still wouldn't get an ounce of attention. Eventually, I'd start working at a Circle K and start making googly eyes at a customer buying her daily coffee...

Pandora: Well, if bald man had done all of that, he may have gotten some attention from me. I guess the real question is -- would you prefer a blimpy girl or an unkempt showerless girl?

Misanthrope: Huh. Those are my only choices? That's rough. Hmmm... Well, is unkempt showerless girl fit? And... can I take the garden hose to her once in a while?

Pandora: You can take the hose to her from time to time, particularly in the summer. And yes, she’s fit, she’s just unkempt and showerless. Kinda like a French feminist, or …something like that.

Misanthrope: So she has a butch buzzcut and wears a communist jumpsuit and no bra? Ouch… I was originally seeing some sort of ugly duckling that, as long as she had a good foundation, could be transformed into something of beauty by just a few quick lessons in hygiene and a day at the spa… you know, an Eliza Doolittle… but now…
Tough call. Tough call…

Pandora: Okay, I take it back. Bad comparison. No butch buzzcut or communist jumpsuits. More like unruly, unkempt, and full of dread locks from prolonged bed head. Tons of armpit and leg hair from no time spent shaving. Probably greasy skin, maybe some pimples, because of the no shower thing. Not to mention the odor. And she would most likely throw a fit about taking a bath, just like Eliza Doolittle.

Misanthrope: But a good foundation? Nice bone structure and a decent shape?

Pandora: Sure. I'll allow that.

Misanthrope: Huh, well, at least potential is there, right? I mean, sure I’m OCD and would only be able to hold her hand with latex/nitrile-gloved hands. And sure, I’d line my couch and bed and anywhere she’d go with plastic… and yeah, perhaps I’d be taking bleach showers. But dammit, I think I’m going to take the shallow road here and say that, in the case where I am given only a choice of between fatty or dirty, my choice would be to the one with seemingly more immediate hotness potential. I mean, sure, they both have potential. But the one would take months and months of dieting and exercise. Whereas the other I could slip a roofie and commit to a day spa and have them take care of her in a day. You know, something I could repeat ... monthly? ...weekly maybe? I guess I have to admit that I’m shallow like that… What about you?!

Pandora: I have an issue with people that smell. Having a man with a smelling pit wrap his arm around me and potentially make my clothes, skin, and hair smell is absolutely terrifying. And what about the teeth? I imagine part of the unkempt is to have disgustingly filthy teeth and rancid breath. That might be a severe issue. I mean… you’re worried about covering the bed with plastic but I’m thinking the desire to let them near the bed might be an issue. Nose plugs may be necessary too. Weekly trips to the day spa still only happen once every seven days. And it may be the only time I seriously mean it when I ask, “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

Misanthrope: (sits back in his chair) Oo! You just made some disgusting points. Hm. How about this? Lets reduce our options and say that we are kidnapped and sent to some 3rd world country and forced to be the love slave of either a fatty or a dirty… there are no plastic sheets or nose plugs. We are at the mercy of these two creatures. Then which would you choose? I might have to go with the fatty in this case. At least I can maintain some sort of cleanliness… and at least there’d be the possibility she’d smother me to death and I could be put out of my misery…

Pandora: Yeah… I can’t handle filth. (...sigh...) Funny how we’ve both lost so much faith that we just created a scenario where “love” will be forced upon us in the form of an oppressively obese Iraqi that might mercifully kill a couple of American Infidels via amorous asphyxiation.

Misanthrope: Yep. If only we could be so lucky. (grabs his lunch box) Take it easy, Pandora. Don't work too late tonight.

Pandora: I won't. Have a good one.

Neighbors, Windmills, And The Proper Disposal Of Garbage

So, I live in an apartment (one of the more humble moments of my existence). One of the nice things about this living situation is that instead of the usual covered parking, I actually have a garage. Granted, I have to share this garage with three other people but... it's a garage. What else can I say?

Anyway, there's a dude that lives directly beneath me (also one of my garage mates). He's a mechanic and in his portion of the garage is a non-operational vehicle that he's restoring (I've seen no changes in this vehicle in the past four months -- apparently it's a "work in progress").

A few weeks back, this neighbor of mine took his garbage out and seemed to have mistaken the garage for the dumpster. In other words, he left the bag of garbage on his side of the garage for days. The stench grew and grew until it became a topic of conversation for my daughter and I, both coming and going from our home. Eventually, after much nasal abuse, the dude did us a favor and took the garbage to the dumpster and, well, at least for me, all was forgiven.

Another plus to apartment living is that one can pretty much hear everything that goes on. For example, the weather has been so nice lately that I have left my windows open in the evening which, at times, makes for better entertainment than any TV series has to offer. I say this because one night last week, as I was lying in bed, the neighbor from downstairs decided to step onto his patio for a cigarette while talking on the phone. To save some of my more sensitive readers, I will spare you the vulgar details, but apparently this man and a few of his cohorts have decided it would be financially lucrative to create an adult film or two. I was fortunate to hear the names of each character involved. For story telling purposes, you must know that he proudly named himself Windmill Dick because he can "swing that thing around like a windmill." Needless to say, I had a good laugh at this man and his "ingenuity," and I've been calling him by his pseudonym ever since.

So... the other morning Hope and I walk out to the garage and as we step inside our noses are overcome by a new yet familiar garbage stench. Hope groans and holds her nose exclaiming, "Not again!" And sure enough, as I turn my head toward my neighbors "work in progress" I notice a bag of garbage that didn't make it to the dumpster. I groaned, knowing that it would be days before that thing would be removed. With each passing day the stench grew worse and by Wednesday it had successfully made its way into my car. It was so bad that even after driving with the windows down and hours away from the diseased bag of trash, I could still smell the odor inside my vehicle. Well... that was it. That was more than I could take. I basically had two options: 1) remove the garbage myself or 2) say something. Obviously, the easier way out would be to remove the disturbance myself, but the thought of removing trash that wasn't my own, or even remotely related to me, was troublesome. So, this morning, the following note was left on his front door:

Dear Windmill Dick,

I, of all people, understand the lackadaisical approach to chores and household duties. I understand that the garbage is a nuisance, at best, particularly since the dumpster seems miles away from the front door. However, I don’t understand why it seems acceptable to make the nostrils of one’s garage mates suffer at the expense of what is most convenient to the self. Over the past three days, the odor of your garbage has escalated to the point of wonder – meaning, I wonder if I should alert the authorities because it smells like the decaying flesh of someone who may have disappeared due to a recent and unpublicized dismemberment. Said odor has also penetrated the "circle of safety" within my own vehicle – meaning, my car still smelled like your disgusting garbage after I drove away, stepped out of the car for a moment, and returned to my vehicle. I have enough trouble as it is in this life without driving around in a vaporous cloud of someone else’s rank garbage. I am not one to complain much, nor am I one to bother my neighbors with trifles, but when it comes to my sense of smell and the fact that an unwanted odor is invading my personal space I would have to say, dear sir, this is no trifling matter. That being said, would you be kind enough to remove the garbage from the garage and place it in the dumpster where it belongs.

Much Obliged,

Pandora

Needless to say, I came home to a garbage free garage today.

Rock Eaters

So the other day I'm walking through the grocery store with my daughter, Hope. As I pass the meats and head over to the produce, she taps me on the elbow and says, "Mom! Look at that guy!" As I turn my eyes in the direction she indicated, I notice a muscle bound man, just shy of six feet tall, wearing a yellow T-shirt with cut-off sleeves (you know, so all humans can properly admire the glorious result of his laborious self-sculpting), tight red shorts (that seemed tighter and shorter than what seems socially permissible), and some Nikes with the cutest little ankle socks (particularly for one who intends to show masculinity through what others may consider brawn). Not caring too much about this human spectacle she pointed out, I simply said (in my don't-bug-me-with-trifles-because-I-hate-the-grocery-store-and-want-to-get-out-of-here-as-fast-as-possible voice), "Yep. He must lift weights alot," and then kept on walking.

Now, it's important for you to understand that Hope turned 10 in July. Until recently, she has been a tomboy showing no interest in the opposite gender for any reason other than she wholeheartedly considers herself their equal in both sports and matters of the intellect: she can throw a football better than most of your sons (which is something she didn't get from me) and she skipped two grades in Math this year (also something she didn't get from me), placing herself in the same category as the boy genius who, since kindergarten, has said he wants to be a geologist (What kid says that? Geologist? Really? ...at 5? I'm not sure I even knew what that was until college). She is, in her soul, as strong and independent as I, a 35 year old woman, still strive to be. This is something about her that I both admire and encourage.

Over the past few months, however, I have noticed that the choice in clothing is a bit more feminine than usual (still not frills and lace, but pink is more frequent than it used to be), the hair is done more often, jewelry has been making an appearance and, as expected, I'm starting to hear about what boys on the television are visually pleasing ("I think he's cute, Mom. Do you think he's cute? I think he's cute."). So... unfortunately for me, I suspect puberty is a hop, skip, and a jump from here; and as we stepped into the produce aisle, leaving Musclebound Mania behind, it occurred to me that for the first time in ten years she noticed a) a dude in the grocery store and b) a Rock Eater at that.

Knowing my daughter the way I do and realizing, somewhere between the meat section and the produce aisle, that her fascination with Muscle Mania over there may have had more to do with her transition from child to tween than I would like to admit. Pondering this further as we stroll through the cereal aisle, I start telling myself that I need to pay more attention to these possible teaching opportunities. Watching her grow the way I do, I am absolutely certain that Rock Eater will be her "type of man" even less than he is mine (and if she is smart, she will heed my wisdom, and if I am smart, I will impart said wisdom upon her while she still thinks I'm cool).

Deep in thought, I take my place in line at the check-stand and start putting my groceries on the counter when Hope suddenly taps my arm again. As I look up at her, I can see that her star-gazed eyes are focused on something ahead of me in line. I turn my head only to see, yet again, Muscle Mania one person between us, paying for his groceries. I can see his six dozen eggs and his countless cans of tuna waiting to be bagged up as he turns his checkbook to the cashier and says, "Can you help me with this? It's been a long time since I've written a check and I don't remember how to do it." At this point, I nonchalantly return my focus to the groceries and say, "Hope, let me tell you something about men like that." She looks up at me, as if she knows she's about to hear something good, and I continue, "Men like that spend too much time looking in the mirror and not enough time cracking a book. In other words, little one, they may be fun to look at for a short while, but you will never be able to hold a good conversation with them." She thought about it for a moment, the stargazedness leaving her eyes, and as she looks at him this time she says, "oooOOOoooh... So that's what you mean when you say certain men eat rocks!" I smile to myself and feel the thrill of successful instruction, "Yes, sweetheart, that's exactly what I mean when I say, some dudes eat rocks."

The Drain

The drains are clogged
and someone died today
another person loses their job tomorrow

I'm standing in the backup
now covering my ankles
And all that I keep trying to wash away
never gets past my feet

I stand and listen for the slow drain
I wait for it to slink away
but it still lingers around the soles
and all I can do is pat them dry
and accept the filmy residue that remains

The drains are clogged
and someone died today
another person loses their job tomorrow

I am stooped over the sink
washing my hands of it
staring at the filthy residue
that refuses to go down

The water pools in the basin
suds and spit from tooth and nail
It nauseates me!
This pool, this backup, this left-over
filth that just won't wash away!
And someone died today!
And someone else loses their job tomorrow!
And no one has time to give them
a proper sending or say a solemn farewell!
And someone else says they're too busy surviving
And someone else is convinced this is Hell.

The drains are clogged...
And someone should call the plumber.

Sometimes I Want To Wake Up And Say...

...the hell?! It's September 23. The last time I wrote it was July (and I have to say I was proud of that last post, aesthetically speaking) and suddenly I find myself walking through the grocery store surrounded by cheap Halloween decore.

Seriously, I'm like Rip van Winkle and I woke up to a world turning without me -- one minute it's July and the next minute it's the second half of the fiscal year and my company is laying people off again. (nothing like working hand in hand with the government to create the need for brown shoes and communism -- at least I hear the unemployment checks should receive an increase soon)

Truly, if there's anything that irks me in this fourth decade of my existence (I like saying it that way, makes me feel younger. I'm just a pre-schooler in the grand scheme of Life and its Lovely Little Lessons.) it's that I feel like a chicken with my head cut off. I know what that's like too! My great grandmother grew up on a farm and when I was about five she told me how her dad would tell her to ring the chicken's neck so her mom could start dinner. She would go outside and grab the chicken by its head and swing it around, lasso style, and then jerk the chicken like a whip and the head would pop right off. The body though, after getting back onto its feet, would run rampantly around the yard for a while before finally accepting its fate and realizing it wasn't supposed to function without its head.

(I never forgot that story. You know, I was five... with an imagination much more vivid than the one I have now. Really... the horror... I think the world will suffer once that generation and my parents' generation is no more. They really have the best stories. What can I tell my grandchildren? "This one time, I bought a chicken from Albertsons that had three breasts. That was when I realized they were using too much growth hormone. A year or so after that they started selling cloned meat and well... that's when I went completely organic... sorta...")

Anyway, that's what I feel like -- someone popped my head off a few years ago and my body is still running around like it's supposed to function. And I'm constantly living with this stupid thought that life is passing me by and it isn't because I'm not doing anything it's because I'm doing everything except for what I really want to do! Obligations obligations obligations... political appearances here, smiley faces there, rub an elbow, brown a nose... Oh look! Someone else realized I have a skill they can use to their advantage! Oh YES! And they want me to help them look good for FREE! SIGN ME UP! SIGN ME UP! I would love to put in ALL OF MY EXTRA PERSONAL TIME TO THIS PROJECT!! I would love to stress out over one more thing! YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(hopefully, you pick up on the sarcasm there but, as is usually the case, there is truth to sarcasm... meaning -- I was indeed working extra hard on more than one project both in and outside of work for little more than a pat on the back and thanks for making me look good. I think, halfway through my fourth decade of Life, I'm starting to realize that it doesn't pay to be the creative force behind someone else's greatness, even if you do take pride in what you created. It feels a lot like doing the bully's homework in an attempt to keep your lunch money.)

In the meantime, two weeks before I complete one of said extracurricular pro-bono projects, would it be a shock to you if I said my health took a serious dive? If you are one of my readers that is only in your second or third decade of life, you may be sitting there saying, "Health? What's that?" But any of the others who have graduated from Life Lesson Level Three are going through their memory files right now and reading this with complete understanding and find themselves wanting to say something to me like:

"Don't take life so seriously. No one gets out alive."

Yes, I know. I was thinking the same thing as I was sitting in the Emergency Room a few weeks ago. The problem is, my nature is to take life seriously. I believe in giving everything I've got to the things that matter most. What seems to be my problem is that I also give everything I've got to the things that don't matter most. I apparently need a class on priorities and time management (which should include time to eat healthy, sleep well, exercise properly, and have a glass of wine as I sit and tap into my imagination and create something that feeds my soul). And maybe, in Life's perfect plan, this is the class I unknowlingly signed up for this fall semester of my 35th year. So far it's a great class filled with medical terminology I have to look up and research so I understand more about what it is, exams that sometimes include cool medications reminiscent of the more carefree days between the first and second decades of my life, and Doctors who can teach and mentor me as I move through this transitional period of my physical existence. The final exam (of course) is a test in the practical application of all I am learning and well, the quality of my lifespan is the grade. It really is a lot like grad school, it's just that the doctor has MD instead of PhD at the end of his name. The result though, improved quality of life, is about the same. (even if I'm not working in my field, I am convinced my education has been my saving grace more than once in terms of job security and my paycheck ... at least until they start passing out brown shoes and we find ourselves needing a PhD to work at McDonalds)

Regardless...

It comes in waves: this push and pull, this rise and fall, this inhale and exhale.

At first I just watched it, taking in the beauty: the sight of it, the sound of it, the scent of it. But it didn’t take me long to step into it.

Strange how something so beautiful can be so intimidating: the sheer power stopping you in your tracks. The thought of being swept away… losing control in the current of something greater. You are not a rock. You are not an island. You are a vessel prone to drift.

I took another step, just enough to feel the waves caress my ankles, to feel the sand pull away from beneath my feet while the next wave brought a new layer of sand to cover them, grounding me, somewhat, holding me steadfast amidst the soft push and pull, like the lull of a cleansing inhale and the sweet release of a breaking exhale.

Strange how you wonder if The Other feels the same, if The Other stands behind, beside, or in front. Stranger still, your willingness to feel… regardless.

I pulled myself out of the grounding sand and stepped further… waves breaking just beneath my knees, imploring me to bend, to give a little, to let it take a little.

Strange how it wasn’t as cold as you thought; that same power that once held you at bay now calls to you, welcomes you, heals you even as it breaks against you.

I realized how wet I had become. The waves were coming closer and faster, one right after the other, and the very thing I thought I wanted to avoid suddenly pleased me. I had forgotten what it was like. Me, living in a desert, living in my own self-inflicted drought… I had forgotten… I had chosen to forget. And suddenly there I stood waist deep in that sight and sound and scent of all I thought I wanted to view from a distance.

Strange how you wonder if The Other feels the same, if The Other stands behind, beside, or in front. Stanger still, your willingness to let go… regardless.

I stood there, took no more steps, as the waves came over me. I sunk deep into the water; my body moved, ever so slightly, by the push and pull, the rise and fall… inhale… exhale… so easy to drift… so easy… if I would just choose to.

Strange how you feel no fear, how you suddenly trust it, this current vowing to sweep you away to a new destination, a new experience, a new existence, another life.

I floated there, completely buoyant, my feet were nowhere near the bottom and my head barely above water. I inhaled and exhaled with each rise and fall and push and pull of passing waves… breaking somewhere beyond me… confident… knowing… I could see the shore.

Strange how you wonder if The Other feels the same, if The Other floats behind, beside, or in front. Stranger still, your willingness to drift… regardless.

I felt the ground beneath me again: soft shifting sand. … the power of the waves behind me, pushing me forward. With the slow rise out of the water, my body felt the strange chill of the warming sun. Standing, waist deep in water, I saw another beside me – a drifter in the same current… lulled by the same waves… willing to drown in the same sea… regardless.

Safety Minute

Moonbeam: (knocks on Pandora's cube wall) Pandora? Does the sight of blood make you queasy?

Pandora: (puts down her pen and turns around) ...excuse me?

Moonbeam: Does the sight of blood make you queasy?

Pandora: Why are you asking me this right now?

Moonbeam: Because I need your help with something.

Pandora: Uh... with all due respect, Moonbeam, my job is to sit here and write words strong enough to withstand battle in a court of law, not to fiddle around with blood borne pathogens.

Moonbeam: Oh my god, Pandora, you're such a kick. It's nothing like that. I just need your help with something.

Pandora: Well, you come up and ask me if blood makes me queasy right before saying you need my help, but... it's got nothing to do with blood?

Moonbeam: Well, you see, I've got this big zit behind my ear and...

Pandora: Wait a minute, what?!

Moonbeam: (turns around and pulls back her ear to show Pandora) ...I have this zit behind my ear and it's extremely painful and I can't reach it well enough to pop it myself so I thought maybe you would help me.

Pandora: Okay... um... first of all, that's a boil, not a zit, and secondly I'm pretty sure that's a safety minute.

Moonbeam: ...a safety minute?

Pandora: Yes.

Moonbeam: How so?

Pandora: Because it's a boil! Boils are infectious, poisonous, toxic, contagious! They are a direct result of Staphylococcus aureus and there is no way I'm going to touch that and expose myself to the dangers of its white pussy contents!

Moonbeam: Hahaha! You are so funny! So.. will you help me?

Pandora: No! I'm dead serious, Moonbeam! That's a safety minute! And seriously, you expect me to stand up here and put my fingers behind your ear and pop that thing?!

Moonbeam: Well, of course not, silly. Use a straight pin or something.

Pandora: ...a straight pin? Am I a seamstress? Are we working in a Bridal Shop? Moonbeam, I'm in a cubicle with maps and legal documents on my desk. Do I look like I have a straight pin?

Moonbeam: (points to the bulletin board) You could use one of those.

Pandora: What? ...a thumb tack? Are you insane? That's also a safety minute!

Moonbeam: What? Why?

Pandora: Because it's unsanitary! It's not sterile! When a doctor sits down to lance a boil he doesn't look at his nurse and say, "We need to take care of this. Would you pass me a thumb tack from the bulletin board so I can pop this thing please?"

Moonbeam: Oh, you're ridiculous. So you won't help me?

Pandora: No. I'm really sorry, but I can't.

Moonbeam: (sees Sunshine take her seat in the cubicle across from Pandora) Sunshine! I bet you'll help me. Nothing scares you.

Sunshine: What? What are we talking about here?

Pandora: I think it's a safety minute.

Sunshine: What?

Moonbeam: Oh, just ignore Pandora. You see, I have this zit here behind my ear and I can't get to it.

Sunshine: What?! You have a what?!

Pandora: I'm telling you, don't touch that thing...

Moonbeam: (turns around to show the boil to Sunshine)

Sunshine: Oh Hell no!! Get the Hell outta my cube!

Moonbeam: But I thought you...

Sunshine: Hell no!! I aint touchin' that thing! Now get the Hell outta my cube! I got work to do.

Moonbeam: (walks away)

Sunshine: She had one too many hits o' acid, that woman. And what's wrong with you, Pandora? I can't believe you didn't stand up and knock some sense into that woman, you be knocking sense into everybody, but you missed the boat on that one. shit... popping people's boils at that office... shit...

Pandora, Perfectionism, And Mr. Murphy's Stupid Law

I believe, right now, that I am cursed. I have been cursed for days. Thankfully, I'm not cursed by some crazy gypsy lady who wishes my soul be damned to the pits of Hell, but I am cursed none-the-less.

What curses me, you ask? A project. A stupid power point project that I have been working on for days and days and days.

Really, considering the amount of research I had to do for the thing, it has consumed me for weeks now. Last Friday night I had recurring nightmares about the thing -- I kept dreaming that I was presenting the final draft to my boss when I realized the contents of the slides contained elements of my personal life that should not be shared in a work environment. Aaaaa!!!

Aside from dominating my subconscious, the thing has interrupted the flow of my imagination and my creativity. All of the energy I would much rather spend on coming up with something quick witted and somewhat humorous has been spent on placing words on pages in the form a narration about land and land rights (though, I'd have to say, the narrative is worthy of the Discovery Channel, should the producers find they lack material and need to fill a time slot with something no one really cares to know).

Seriously... I am now sitting here in a coffee induced insomniac fit because I came home from work tonight thinking I would finish it up with just enough polish and style to bring it back to work first thing tomorrow morning and be done with it. I would be able to pass the thing off to the people in charge of the visuals and let it go, but no... the damn thing mocks me!

For whatever reason, all the work I sent to my home computer is now lost; "the path" to the file "cannot be found" and I sit here writing in this blog because Murphy's Law has decided to fuck with me and leave me hanging!

Deadlines are looming over my head and tomorrow, when I was so looking forward to leaving this stupid thing behind, I will be sitting at my desk, yet again, perfecting the thing while simultaneously juggling the duties (or at least fooling myself into thinking I'm juggling the duties) of my day to day cubicle confines.

And you are sitting there reading this stupid post and thinking, "She hasn't written anything for days and now I have to read about this stupid thing that I know nothing about nor do I really care or would I care if I even had the chance to care about it." Power Point?! We don't need no stinking Power Point!

Yes, actually, we do. But... instead... we are going to go lie down in our bed and stare at the ceiling and occasionally look at the clock and see how long it takes to fall asleep before the alarm goes off.

All Work And No Play Makes Pandora A Dull Girl. Oh yes, and Wendy, I'm home! Where's the axe?!! Redrum! Redrum!

And to think, I stayed up in prime graduate student style for nothing.

Damn, this is worse than the time I drove out to the school and slipped my final paper under the professor's door at 4:00 a.m. just to keep my "A."

Make A Mental Note Out Of It -- Noise...

...they've been playing this song for years. ...it's a good song, but... i'm not in the mood....played out... hell, that's fourten years of being played out... there's nothing good on any of them, they all play the same stuff over and over and over for years. It's just noise anymore... nothing but noise to fill the space ...white noise... background noise... noise.

the silence is good. somewhat relaxing to hear nothing but the wind traveling over my car, the road rolling under the wheels, the subtle whistle of the air conditioner...

whistle... whistle... hmmm... is that really a whistle? could i really use the word whistle to describe that sound? hmmm... there's got to be a better word for that sound. i could call it a whistle, i suppose, but a reader might think it's the whistle of a breaking air conditioner, and it isn't. it's just the sound of air leaving the vent and keeping me cool... it feels really good right now too.
...nope, not a whistle... i'll have to think about that one.

it is better without the noise though. really. maybe i'll just keep the sound off at home too. muted... everything muted... the mute button...

maybe i should mute myself for a while...push my own mute button. i'm always talking talking talking, always thinking thinking thinking, always looking for the right word and the right way to present it. i get paid to talk.

...yeah, the mute button may be required. especially today, the way i feel right now...

my mind is being pulled in all different directions and i have this huge explosion of creative thought but ... am constantly holding back, saving for later, and all i'm really doing is talk talk talking.

...and somewhere in the background i see Hamlet pacing back and forth with a book in his hands: words words words words words... he pounds the thing... words... noise...

...maybe i should write that down... i better get a pen and write that down before i forget... no pen... No Pen?! what is wrong with me today? i really need to go home and lie down. seriously... i think i'm having a melt down... No PEN? REALLY?! ... Crap! ...No Pen... oh well, i'll just have to keep that picture of Hamlet in my mind until i get home. Crap... i hate it when i don't have a pen...