Partly Cloudy with a Chance for Truth

I don't often post quotes, but lately have felt like I needed something uplifting, something stable and true to hold onto... a reminder that when I feel down or when I feel like I'm seeing the world askew, it's still my world and it is what I know -- and no one, NO ONE can take away what I feel in my heart. It can't be reasoned away, it can't be called wrong, it can't be called untimely and it cannot be restrained by anyone but me. Maybe you will like this quote as much as I:

"Remember above all things, Kid, that to write is not difficult, not painful, that it comes out of you with ease, that you can whip up a little tale in no time, that when you are sincere about it, that when you want to impress a truth, it is not difficult, not painful, but easy, graceful, full of smooth power, as if you were a writing machine with a store of literature that is boundless, enormous, endless, and rich. For it is true; this is so. Do not forget it in your gloomier moments. Make your stuff warm, drive it home American-wise, don't mind critics, don't mind the stuffy academic theses of scholars, they don't know what they're talking about, they're way off the track, they're cold; you're warm, you're redhot, you can write all day, you know what you know..."
-- Jack Kerouac

Say It Ain't So

Meanwhile, back in Innanet dating land...

I opened my Match.com email for a bit of a shock. The letter read: "Hey. Look, I don't think this is working out. I just don't see us clicking. You're a great guy and all. Sorry I didn't let you know sooner. --Lisa."

Well, that's just GREAT. Dumped via email.

I promptly wrote back: "Lisa, I don't know what to say. I can't believe you'd end it... like... like this, after all we've been through. I should have seen this coming. I mean, you've been so... distant. I know I'll be able to move on eventually, and one day I'll get over you, but first: WHO ARE YOU?"

I had no idea who Lisa was. I pulled up her profile from her user name, examined all her photos and was at a complete loss. I'd never talked to her. True, I was having minimal luck with Match.com and going through a dry spell. Statistics showed that for every woman there was 8 guys. (Apparently, 7 better looking guys than yours truly.) But honestly, to get dumped by a girl I'd never met... That's gotta be like rock-bottom.

No Good Comes of Smoking

So, I go to get a pack of smokes a minute ago -- because, Hi: I'm flawed -- and walk toward the convenience store door at the same time an adorable little rosy-cheeked girl of about seven years approaches it. She looks up at me with big blue eyes and reaches up for the handle, then, using all her body weight, pulls the door open and holds it for me.

"Aw, thank you sweetie," I said, completely surprised by thoughtfullness in a child during an age when I thought all manners had been lost. I imagined she was hurrying in to get some apple juice or, perhaps if she was lucky, a sweet treat with money from her mother who was pumping gas during all this. I remembered the excitement of having some of Dad's change in my pocket and being given carte blanche to get a candy bar or a comic book or perhaps some little trinket from the store. So, of course, I added, "But you go right ahead, dear."

She just stared at me, straining to keep the door open.

So I added, "Ladies first, you know."

"But I'm just a girl. I'm not a lady."

"Well, heh-heh, then you're a little lady."

Her face was reddening as she pulled against the weight of the door, and I could feel the heat from the asphalt on my own face. It's about 100 degrees outside. Yet, she didn't move. So I arched my arm toward the top of the door and held it as well, offering her a chance to scurry in under me. She remained.

"See, it's good manners for me to allow you in first, because that's what men do for women. It's gentlemanly."

"But you're old and my mom told me to hold the door for old people."

You little shit... "I'm not ol-- listen, kid: that's ageist."

"What's ayjis?"

"You. You're being ageist. Now, you have certain privileges you can enjoy as a young lady, and having a man hold the door for you is one of them."

She scrunched her chubby face, "What is it when girls aren't treated the same as boys?"

"That's called sexist."

She thought about it for a second and then yelled across the parking lot, "Mom! What's sexis?"

The officer explained to me some of the parameters of "verbal harassment of a minor," I think is what he called it...

Womens is Cray-zay

When I found myself single for the first time in 13 years, I realized something: I had forgotten how to meet women. I'm not sure I ever knew how. All the Janes I'd loved before had pursued me. So, after bolstering my courage with eight single malt scotches (each with a solitary spring water ice cube, because I'm not, like, a barbarian or anything) I decided it was time to get "out there" again. Putting my best foot forward, I tripped and fell into the door jamb and decided maybe it would be safer to try to meet someone online instead. My buddy, Travis, had met his wife online... surely I could at least procure a date.

A quick summary of some memorable but not-so-pleasurable experiences from my first round of Innanet dating include, but are not limited to:

• Two women that both found it perfectly normal to call me at 1:30 in the morning for psychoanalysis (both of whom I'd had only one date with... bizarre, huh?);
• One date that had us meet at a drag show for a very surreal first date;
• Two women that wanted my babies after one date;
• A gal suffering from such delusional paranoia that she became convinced after our first date that I was only going out with her to sleep with her roommate -- her roommate that she had in college ten years prior in a different state and that I'd never seen, no less;
• One woman that posted a photo from seven years prior claiming that, even after childbirth, the passing of the nineties, and the addition of 50 pounds she felt she looked "exactly the same as when the photo was taken";
• One woman that found herself incredibly sexually attracted to me to only later discover that I reminded her exactly of her brother (eesh!);
• And one of my favorites: a woman that showed up an hour late for my homecooked meal, drank the entire bottle of wine, talked the entire way through the rented movie, insisted on imparting an unsolicited two-hour long monologue about her dysfunctional past, freaked out claiming my bathroom turned her lips purple (see Purple Lips post) and bit my big toe twice before being asked to leave.

And then there were some seriously scary dates.

Ladies, if you're out there: thank you for the memories, I hope you're getting the help you deserve, and I owe you a debt of gratitude -- had I not fled from you screaming into the night like a hunted man, I would not have met Jane.

No Jane, No Pain

There seems to be some confusion about Jane. All of my (significant) exes are named Jane. It's a strange coincidence, I know. And, oddly, there's my current relationship with Jane A. Malgum. I'm sorry for any confusion this has caused. To me it just seems wrong to make up a fake name for each ex. The idea rankles my journalistic integrity. Additionally, I think my credibility would suffer if I started telling you about my life with Swamp Witch, Bitch Goddess, Soul Sucking Vampiress from Hell, etc. Therefore, in an effort to clarify from here on out, I will try to remember to refer to each Jane with her designated Roman numeral, assigned according to their chronological appearance in, pestiferous persistence of morally objectionable antics during, and subsequent eviscerating disappearance from my life.

This, of course, does not apply to Jane.

My apologies for the confusion.

Suddenly Single

After I broke up with Jane II, I started going to the tanning salon. It helped color my blanched, tear-stained cheeks. I had to pay careful attention as to when to quit, so I didn't turn orange. You can always tell the careless suddenly-singles on the scene from their solar-white/blue bleached teeth, orange fake-bake complexion, and hair color from a bottle. They're also easily found in the health clubs, blubbering shamelessly while pumping iron.

The largest faction of singles are of course grouped on a Friday or Saturday night at a selection of clubs specially designed for them. But again, the fresh singles are easily differentiated from the pack: They are the ones at the beginning of the evening who enter the joint grinning widely and looking like they found the promised land, while the end of the evening finds them either shocked at their solitude or sh#tfaced.

I’ve noticed that pockets of damaged humans can also be spotted at Barnes & Noble in the self-help section, hunched and poring over some book like "Do I Have to Give Up Meat to be Loved by You?", "Single Again -- Stopping the Insanity", "I'm OK, You're OK, but I'm Lying -- You're Not OK", or "Loving Yourself -- Looks Like You'll Have To Now". They have a perpetually confused look on their face, as if asking the world where they went wrong. You can tell how freshly single they are from the grace of their smile. (I'm still working on mine.) Newly floundering singles, such as I was, smile crazy-like, as though they just dropped acid, drank a pot of coffee and ate a lemon. This is likely a breakup reaction developed by nature to protect others from this person, much as the pine tree emits terpines to keep cute and loveable woodland creatures from nibbling its cones.

Fresh singles rarely get their cones nibbled.

I'm Batman!

Last night I'm working in the yard (as usual) and it occured to me, I'm Batman!

I sweat weird.

Could be the rolls of fat beneath. More like Fatman. Kinda the same, only without the cool car and kickin' trust fund. But if crime runs rampant in Denver City, I shall spring (read: roll) to action, armed with my trusty hoe (not Jane) and squash the evil-doings of each nefarious villain by... ummm.... well... sitting on them.

Granted, it's no Shroud of Turin.

You'll Never Believe What Happened

The other day I was--- no. Wait. That wasn't me.

The Preemption of Ninja Boy

Jane got me throwing stars, and I finally put up a target in my garage. I'd forgotten how much fun they were. I had them as a kid, and hid them in the tiny hollow under my nightstand. I had homemade nunchakus that I also had to hide from my parents. It was kinda hard to hide the bruises though. Never did get very good with those. Fortunately I had the foresight to make them out of hard rubber, so none of the injuries were traumatic. Just embarassing.

And of course the necessity of my owning a katana or any other sword was completely lost on my parents. They didn't even like the idea of me having a bokken. They viewed it as something else I could swing around in the house, at my brother, and invariably through a lamp or vase.

They had no compassion for my burning desire to grow up to be a ninja. My mom wouldn't even make me a ninja costume for Halloween 'cause she knew eventually one night she'd open the door to my room to find an empty bed, an open window and -- in her mind -- a twisted pile of costumed ten year old boy on the grass two stories below. Consequently, I blame her for all the crime in my hometown. How can I fight crime without a ninja costume? How do you stalk evildoers in corduroys and bright red Chuck Taylors? Who'd be intimidated by a ninja in a colorful rugby shirt? She would have the news on while making dinner and with every broadcast of a missing child or hijacking -- or especially a holdup -- I would mutter under my breath, "See what you've done, Mother?"

Looking back, it's pretty silly to have wanted to be a ninja when I grow up.

Spiderman's so much cooler.

Cut the Cord, Kid.

I think that historically irony has been lost on preschoolers and that ridicule taught at an early age will help those children become the taunters rather than the taunted by the time junior high rolls around. There aren’t enough thick-skinned five year olds, in my opinion. I know that every time I take the time to share my thoughts with one, he or she ends up in needless tears.

“Look, Susie, I’m sorry – I know your mother still dresses you. I’m merely ‘encouraging’ you to reconsider those shoes with that dress -- maybe question her judgment every now and then. It’s called ‘critical thinking’, sweetie, and you have to learn it sometime. Just because she’s ‘Mommy’ doesn’t mean she knows what she’s doing, OK?”

Or maybe people just shouldn't bring their children into work if they don't want them to talk to me.

Sheesh.

It's My Birthday

It's my birthday today. I wish I could come up with something witty and wise to say after having been alive for so long... 35 years. But I'm not nearly as creaky and saged as some of my 40 year old associates. So, I'll turn to them for wisdom. They'll probably tell me not to call them 40.

All I can think is that 35 years ago today, I was born during prime-time on a Thursday night. Today is Thursday. My ever creeping varied literary devices tell me that I'm running a high risk of dying today... full circle... Thursday to Thursday... 3 and 5 being prime numbers...

But I must shrug that off if I'm going to have a good time. I'd like to have a couple drinks and get out on my motorcycle for a bit. That should ease the angst.

Outfoxed by a Rabbit

Last night, on my ga-gillionth trip to Home Depot this summer, it occurred to me that I've done this all wrong. I had asked a floor clerk for grass patch to try to heal the portions of my lawn that I'd razed in ripping out my gardens last week, and he directed me to it. I'd only walked by it four times, so I didn't feel entirely stupid. There, at his feet was a small rabbit. I pointed to it and he sighed, "Yeah. We've got rabbits."
"That's so cool."

"Not really. There's feces everywhere. We've called Terminix to deal with them."

"You're going to kill Thumper?"

His face drooped, "Sir, you don't understand. They break into the bags of seed and then we have to mark them down to sell them because they're partially empt--"

"How much?"

"Sir?"

"How much do you mark them down?"

"At least half price."

"Awesome. I'll take those open ones there."

He loaded them into my cart. "It's just not good for business."

"Are you kidding? It's great! I'm the customer. I should know."

"But we're losing money."

"The customer is always right. You'd better not kill Thumper. In the meantime, why don't you stop storing seed on the floor?"

And I did see rabbits throughout the garden aisles, poking their heads out, then venturing up to the nearest pallate for a snack. Must be nice to live in your grocery store, fellas. Then it occurred to me: instead of buying a home and going to Home Depot every other hour, I should have moved into a Home Depot. I mean, they have all the supplies I need, plus the personnel that knows how to use them. Clever bunnies.

"Sir, these bags of seed are open," said Britney at the register. "Would you like to grab some different ones instead?"

"Nope. These are fine. Half-price, right?"

"I'm not sure. I'll have to get the manager. Are you sure you don't--"

"Yeah, just call the manager."

A few moments later, a mustached gentleman in his mid-forties approached. "Aw, I see the rabbits have been at it again."

"Yes. Yes they have. Half-price, right?"

He nodded solemnly to Britney and she scanned them, then marked them down. I couldn't help but notice a typo on the manager's name tag, "Llloyd."

"Excuse me, but your name tag has three L's in it."

"Yes?"

"Yes." I paused and he stared at me, wondering what my point was. So I elaborated, "Yes. Three."

"Yes sir, I know. That's how I spell it."

"Oh, I've just never seen three L's in Lloyd before."

"Who's Lloyd?"

"You're Lloyd. Or Llloyd..."

"My name is Frank, sir."

"But your tag says Llloyd."

"That's just how it's spelled."

I swiped my credit card and then Britney shrieked and grabbed Ffrank's arm. She turned to me and announced, "Mr. Blair: this is your ga-gillionth trip to Home Depot!"

"Yeah, tell me about it."

Ffrank double-checked her information on the screen. "It's true, sir. You've been here a ga-gillion times now."

"So, does that get me some kind of discount or something?"

They stared at each other and Ffrank turned to me, "Well, no. Not really. It's just that we've never had a ga-gillionth customer before."

"So, no discount?"

I could tell that Ffrank felt it unfair of Home Depot to not be prepared to honor such an event. He took me out front of the store and bought me a bratwurst and a soda from the hot dog vendor, but I had to pay for the chips.

True story.

Well, mostly the part about the rabbits.