Snippet From My Day #4

She folded her arms across her chest and looked down at me over the rims of her glasses. Her words were more polite than the You're A Fucking Liar expression she wore.

"That's not possible, ma'am. We use a Pyxis, and that has a very, VERY low rate of error."

"Well, what am I supposed to do to prevent this? You handed me a large bottle, and the bottle says Quantity: 180. It looked reasonably full, so I believed you. Should I, in the future, pour all those pills out on the counter here and count them myself before leaving? Low margin of error or not, there's still a margin of error." I was doing my best to be calm and reasonable, but this woman's tone was really rubbing me the wrong way.

"Yes, but. . ."

"Perhaps it wasn't the machine's error," I suggested, "Perhaps someone punched in the wrong number by mistake. Either way, I'm 18 doses short, and I'll tell you what's going to happen: I'm going to the doctor to obtain refills. I'm going to come back, and you're going to deny those refills, saying I'm trying to fill too early. And the reason I'm trying to fill too early is because you shorted me 18 days worth of doses."

"Look, ma'am, it isn't that we don't believe you," she explained quasi-patiently, We Don't Believe You almost visibly oozing out of every pore in her disbelieving face, "but you have to understand how many times a day we hear that accusation. And what are we expected to do? Hand over extra pills with an apology?"

"Inventory."

"Excuse me?"

"You asked what I expected you to do! You compare what you should have on hand against what you do have on hand, and I'll take the 36 extraneous pills. I could understand your concern if I showed up claiming to be 18 Percocet short, or 18 Oxycontin short, but you can't even get high off of this stuff! There's no recreational benefit whatsoever to my trying to get extra doses out of you."

She paused before saying, "We're very busy, ma'am."

"I feel ya. I'll wait." I took a seat and pulled my book out of my purse, and she disappeared behind the counter. She wasn't just making an excuse- they really were very busy, so I resigned myself to remain in that uncomfortable chair for at least an hour.

I had only read 12 pages before I heard the technician calling my name. I put my book back in my purse to return to the counter, and there she was, holding a small bag in her hands and an embarrassed expression in her eyes. She handed me the bag.

"We apologize for the inconvenience," she said, fortified as though preparing for a blow. I merely smiled and accepted the bag from her hand.

"It's alright," I gave a little shake of the bag, "Just be glad I didn't wait till I ran out of these things before i came in." She nodded, understanding exactly what I meant.

Holy Nutsack, Batman!

It's hard to pick a "most" embarrassing moment out of all the many embarrassing moments that happen over a lifetime. I had it narrowed down to two in particular: the one where I got saran wrapped to the flagpole when I was a wee freshman in high school, and this one. This one won out because I was embarrassed for the both of us.

~*~

I was married in Lake Tahoe. I don't live anywhere near Lake Tahoe, but it had a few things going for it that made the trip beyond worthwhile: it was absolutely one of the most beautiful places I've ever had the pleasure of visiting, I didn't have to deal with houseguests, and the resort people planned my entire wedding for me- all I had to do was pick out the flavour of the cake, the colour of my bouquet, and then show up at the appointed time. The last perk was the most important one to me; I'd decided to get married after all, but I damn sure wasn't going to go through the stress and hassle of planning the wedding.

The downside to elopement wasn't obvious to me at first. I'd never been married and I had NO idea what to do, and there was to be no rehearsal. You'd think simply walking down a narrow aisle would be easy enough, right? No cause for anxiety? What if I came in before I was supposed to? What if I came in late? What if I stood on the wrong side?? A lot can go wrong in twenty nine steps.

But we did have the next best thing: an appointment with the minister, and he was going to give us the play book. So we went downstairs to the lobby of our resort to meet with Reverend McIntyre the day before the wedding. I liked him immediately! He was friendly, he had that ministerly look about him (without being stuffy) and he was willing to try to make our wedding whatever we wanted it to be.

We took our seats opposite him to tell him what we did and didn't want in our ceremony. I was in the middle of trying to explain to him (without offending him) that we weren't religious people and we wanted as un-religious a ceremony as we could possibly get away with, when something on his pants caught my eye. Before I could stop myself, I glanced down to see what it was, and immediately wished I hadn't. There, right at his crotch, was a split seam maybe an inch in length, and some pink was showing through.

I felt my cheeks flame bright red with sudden blush. I was thinking it was kind of funny for a minister to be wearing pinkish underwear, when the truth of the whole business hit me like a wrecking ball: it wasn't pinkish underwear at all. I was being peeked at by Holy Scrotum. I remember blinking a couple of times, thinking I must be mistaken. I was not mistaken.

"How can he not FEEL that?!" I demanded silently, "It's COLD in here!"

My husband noticed I wasn't paying attention and knew something was wrong, because I'd just been fretting about not knowing what to do when the time came to do it. I could hear him making decisions, but I just couldn't make myself pay attention. He elbowed me in the ribs a few times, and I tried to marshal my errant focus and raise my eye back up to Rev. McIntyre's face, feeling all the while that this must be how a guy feels when he's assaulted by perfect cleavage.

The next thing I knew, we were on our feet and Reverend was shaking our hands to take his leave. He wished us luck for the morrow and left, and I stood there gaping like a complete retard, unable to utter anything coherent at all. As soon as he'd gone, Jim turned to me and demanded to know what THAT was all about. I told him. I couldn't believe he missed it!

"Well, *I* don't go around checking out ministers' packages, babe," he retorted.


~*~

This was my entry for Mrs. C's blogging challenge, topic 2: Most Embarrassing Moment

Tea in a Cold Room

A steaming cup of Darjeeling in a still, cold room is a thing of beauty. The crisp, austere white porcelain foils so agreeably with the clear russet fluid it carries.

The line between the surface and the air just above is a smear, blurred by the liquid transmuting to steam and taking wing before your very eyes. The newborn vapors rise in a thick, straight rope; the rope doesn't twist or furl in the quiet, undisturbed air.

The faint muscatel scent ascends in this medium, astride the column of mist before dispersing into cool atmosphere, invisible but delightful in its presence.

An unseen corona of heat gently suffuses the cup, eager to provide comfort to the chill-shrunken hands that embrace it.

A pleasure to all five senses, all that remains is to raise it to the lips, invite the piping wetness to cross the threshold of the mouth and let the tinge of its astringency linger briefly on the tongue before sliding down to warm the body and infuse the spirit.

Snippet From My Day #3

"Ugh, I've got an eye-twitch in my foot," I complained, shaking my foot as though it were something I could dislodge.

He stared at me like I'd just sprouted the twitching foot in question directly out of the side of my head.

"You know those annoying eye twitches you get when you're tired?" I tried to explain.

". . . yeah. . ."

"Well, I've got one in my foot. An eye-twitch in my foot."

"Yeah, I hur' what you sai'. It jus' don' make no sense."

"Sure it does! It's a tiny little spasm-y jerk right in the arch of my foot. It's exactly like the tiny little spasm-y jerk you get in your eyelid."

"Woul'n that be a foot twitch?"

I watched him persist stubbornly in completely missing the point, and gave up. I wasn't exactly sure I had a point in the first place.

"I suppose it would," I conceded.

Christmas Recipe Swap (Group Blog Thursday)

Yes, I LOVE recipe swaps! It's the topic for Steph In The City's Thursday Group Blog. I can't think of a better thing to blog collectively about just before I do my Christmas dinner shopping, thanks, Stephanie! Here's my recipe for a fanTAStic side dish (crock pot, so it won't take up valuable oven or stove top space!), and something to take the edge off of over-the-top family members ;)

Orange-Glazed Carrots

Ingredients:

1 (32 oz) package baby carrots
1/2 cup firmly packed light brown sugar
1/2 cup orange juice
3 tablespoons butter
3/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
2 tablespoons cornstarch
1/4 cup cold water

Combine the carrots, brown sugar, orange juice, butter, cinnamon and nutmeg in a large bowl. Mix well. Place carrot mixture in slow cooker set on LOW. Cover and cook until carrots are tender but not soggy (about 3.5-4 hours).

Spoon carrots into a serving bowl. Remove the juices to a small saucepan and heat to a boil over high heat. Mix the cornstarch and water in a small bowl and blend. Stir into saucepan and boil 1 minute until sauce is thickened (stir constantly). Pour sauce over carrots and serve!

My Variations:

I like to double the sauce and add a chopped apple or some halved cranberries. It makes a great alternative for those who don't like sweet potatoes :)



Gluhwein (German Spiced Wine)

Ingredients:

1 lemon
12 whole allspice
12 whole cloves
dash of ground nutmeg
1 cup water
1 cup sugar (Splenda works too)
3 cinnamon sticks
6 cups of cheap Burgundy wine (the cheaper varieties flavour better, so don't catch yourself thinking that if you buy a better quality wine that it'll taste better. I like to use Inglenook).

In a small sauce pan, combine water, sugar, allspice, cloves, nutmeg, cinnamon sticks and the peel of the lemon (it can be chopped, torn into small pieces or grated, it doesn't matter). Heat to boiling and then simmer 5 minutes. Remove from heat, cover, and let it sit 15 minutes. Strain the syrup, retaining the cinnamon sticks.

In a medium stock pot or Dutch oven, pour the wine and squeeze the juice from the lemon (pick out the seeds). Pour in the syrup and add the cinnamon sticks. Heat slowly until hot, but not boiling (boiling ruins it). Serve in mugs.

My Variations: I like to throw two or three Tazo Passion tea bags into the syrup as its boiling (remove with the other spices) and garnish the mugs with orange slices.

Enjoy!

A Fly On The Wall

I saw "John" and "Jane" casually glancing around, taking stock of who was around and paying attention to them. They didn't notice my surreptitious focus, as I was bent over a task and looking at them through the periphery of my vision. I knew that look. That was the look of a pair of people about to go off and do things they oughtn't be doing, mainly because they're coworkers and Jane is married. You know, to someone else.

First John went out the door, trying to look intent on an errand. Jane hung back, puttering around and trying to look busy, but watching the clock. I predicted five minutes before she followed John out the door. She waited three, and with a last glance around the room, headed out a different door. Clever move, I congratulated her silently. I hadn't anticipated the different door.

Feigning an errand of my own, I left the lab and went to my office, which was conveniently located next door to John's. I walked past his closed door, went into my office, and silently shut the door. I shed my pretense on my desk and leaned against the shared wall, trying to sharpen my hearing. All I could hear were murmured voices, and I couldn't make out anything they were saying. I stood stock-still, listening, but nothing changed; the murmurs didn't change to sighs, or stifled moans. I heaved a sigh of disappointment and sat down in my chair, contemplating.

I wished I could be a fly on the wall! I closed my eyes and imagined being tiny and completely unnoticed, able to take in the scene without caution or embarrassment. I imagined the thrill of being the ultimate voyeur, the succulent vision before me splintered into hundreds of facets in my fly-eyes, rubbing my fly-forelegs together in greed.

I opened my eyes to a prismatic world, and my little fly brain began to buzz with the excitement of a wish come true! I flapped my iridescent fly wings experimentally, flushing with pleasure as I felt myself lifted from the now-huge landscape of my chair, and made a bee-line (fly-line?) for the air vent that connected my office to John's. As I popped out on the other side, I was instantly rewarded with the sight of John's face buried in Jane's perfect A-cup breasts. The murmuring voices came from an AM talk-radio station playing softly from the radio sitting on a shelf in the corner, just loud enough to cover the furtive noises of the trysters. Clever, I silently congratulated them again, and focused on the scene before me.

Jane carelessly discarded her blouse while John hiked her skirt up around her hips. He lifted her effortlessly off her feet and planted that perfectly rounded ass on his desk, one hand sliding up her thigh toward the prize. She wrapped her long, 40-inch legs around his hips and drew him close to her, fumbling with his pants as her mouth fed hungrily on his. I crept a little closer, my human mind gorging itself on the forbidden scene. I drowned in the scents of their pheromones and her secret honey dripping from her flower hotly into John's palm as he worked her. I battled my fly instincts to hurl myself toward that intoxicating smell, forcing myself to retain my place on the wall.

Jane finally won the skirmish with John's zipper. His member had barely sprung free of its confines before being slammed into a new, sweeter prison. She flung herself back across his desk, giving herself over to his thrusts, biting back little cries and swallowing them down that gloriously arced throat. Her lovely little breasts rippled and rocked to John's furious rhythm when suddenly her back arched and her mouth opened wide in a silent scream. I smelled her climax seconds before his followed. Not trusting myself to conquer my fly instincts any longer, I retreated back to the air vent, and then my office.

I planted myself back into my chair and closed my eyes to digest the images I'd taken in. When I opened my eyes again after replaying the events in my head, my vision was stereoscopic once more. I marshaled my thoughts and exited my office just as Jane was exiting John's. She looked at me, startled, and I smiled blandly at her. I was preoccupied with the lingering scent of honey trailing her, and my distracted expression set Jane's mind at ease. She smiled back at me as she adjusted her top button and made her way back toward the lab.

This is my contribution to Mrs. C's blogging challenge, topic 1: You're a fly on the wall, what's going on? What do you see?

Occasionally, I Hate Blogging On MySpace

My primary blog is on MySpace (yeah, yeah, i know, MySpace is for 14 year old girls who like to spend their days taking/posting hundreds of pictures of themselves). Why do I blog there? I don't know, it's where I started and I have a steady readership over there. I have never had any hate comments (anyone who's ever blogged on MySpace knows all about those- they attack you as a person rather than what you've just written about), and I get some pretty good feedback from writers I like to read. I like how you can leave a kudo if you don't have anything in particular to say, but want the author to know you liked it. In short, it has its perks and its irritations, much like anything else in life.

Yesterday I experienced an unanticipated irritation.

Eventually, if you read the same people often enough, you start moving in the same circles as other readers of that persons blog. Sometimes, if they like your comments, they'll come read your blog. Very occasionally, someone you don't like ends up reading your blog, and you have to choose between responding neutrally to their comments, or telling them to go piss up a rope. Option 2 is the more honest, upfront thing to do, but then (depending on who it is) you risk the wrath of that person's whole blog circle coming down on you and bombarding you with hate comments/mails/messages/what-have-yous. It's an issue that seems to be unique to MySpace blogging, and I've never been bothered by it until a few weeks ago. Enter "Jane" (name changed to protect blah blah blah).

I've seen her comments on other blogs I've read before, and she'd replied to a few of the comments I'd left myself, but I don't really care for her. I found her to be a rather obsequious sycophant, and a long-winded one, at that. Anyhow, my policy for dealing with unpalatable online personalities is simply not to respond to them, and that's how I'd dealt with her in my infrequent brushings with her.

Then she started reading my blog. Fuck.

She pulls the same over-the-top OMG I AGREE WITH YOU SO MUCH type comments on mine as she does on everyone else's, and I'd decided to deal with her monosyllabically whenever possible. After all, when one kisses as much ass as she does, one gathers quite a few friends, and she sports quite a few drama bloggers as friends. Not a scene I'm interested in! I just want to post my rants about my daily life, my bits of fiction, random dreams, and be on my way. Preferably with mild interaction with my readers.

So she's been reading my blog for a few weeks now, and I popped over to her blog, out of courtesy, and read a little bit. She's an issues blogger, which is a turn-off to me in the first place, and the cause she champions isn't one that interests me. Throw in all the bad grammar and spelling, and I decided to politely unsubscribe.

That's polite, right? Unsubscribing quietly?

Apparently, it isn't. I got a message from her yesterday asking why she hadn't seen me commenting on her blog. Fuck, and double fuck! Now I'm back at my initial problem: be honest or be vague. Here's vague:

Sorry I haven't spent much time at your blog, I've got a lot of subscriptions and as much as I try to make it to everyone, I don't always succeed. I'll try to be better in the future.

Apologies,
Christie.

Then I can visit her blog daily and hit the kudos button, making it look as though i read it. But that's really WAY too much effort, and it's just downright dishonest. I already feel horrible just for having thought about it.

Here's honesty:

I don't have a lot of free time, and I'm not going to spend that little bit that I do have reading shit that I don't enjoy, by people I don't like. I don't expect people to read my blog just because I read theirs, I expect people to read it because they like it. If they don't like it? I'd prefer they politely unsubscribe and spend their time elsewhere- no drama, no flaming, no butt-hurtedness. Everybody wins! So please, unsubscribe in an undramatic fashion. You really would be doing me a solid.

Best of luck,
Christie.

And I honestly feel that way! I don't expect people to read me just because I read them. It doesn't change the fact that I enjoy their writing, and I'm going to continue reading it. I found out a long time ago that very few MySpace people feel this way- if they spend time reading and commenting your blog, they damn sure expect that you reciprocate. If you don't, most of the time, they just quietly unsubscribe (yay for quiet unsubscription!) and you stop hearing from them.

Oh, but not Jane! No, she requires explanations. I've done my best to avoid dealing with her, and that's clearly not going to work. So I think I'll go halfway between vague and honest:

I'm sorry I haven't made it to your blog, but at this time, I don't have time for additional subscriptions. I appreciate the time you take to read and comment mine, but if it isn't something you enjoy doing for its own sake, then please don't feel obligated to continue doing so. I know your time is valuable too, and I wouldn't want you to waste it on a one-sided blogging relationship.

Best of luck to you and your cause,
Christie.

A firm Thanks-But-No-Thanks, but not a rude one. I hope she quietly unsubscribes and refrains from tossing me to the lions.

Group Blog Thursday: Tacky Holiday Traditions

This is my first time contributing to Stephanie's Group Blog Thursday. This week's topic is tacky Christmas traditions that we'd like to see banished from today's society. Take a gander at hers, The Ugly Christmas Sweater, and contribute if you like :) You've always been a tough act to follow, Steph, but here goes!


While i was checking out at Big Buys yesterday, i had the following conversation with the cashier:


"Will that be all for you today?"

"Yes, thank you."

"I only ask because. . . ," she paused and eyed my meager selection of purchases-to-be. "To be blunt, it just seems you're being a little chintzy this year."

"Well, it's not exactly chintziness. I took a pay cut-," i began defensively.

"Yeah, yeah, the economy, blah blah blah," she interrupted, "You know, this is the one time of year where you have the opportunity let everyone in your life know how much you care about them, and you're about to drop the ball with some of them, and completely blow it with others. I mean, if you're willing to sacrifice your friends' and family's perfect holiday, that's your prerogative."

I was at a loss. She was right, i was buying things i knew my kids weren't exactly hoping for, and outright not buying for others at all. I tried not to look ashamed.

"Well, i . . . ," i stammered, groping for an unScroogely excuse. She held up her hand, mercifully forestalling my lameness.

"But there IS something you can do about it."

"There is?" Relief washed over me.

"Yes. You can apply for our Big Buys Visa card and max it out. Nothing says, 'I care' like a maxed balance on your store credit card."

"Hmm, i don't know. . . "

"Low monthly payments! A very competitive 35% APR! And a guaranteed line of credit that's unjustifiably high, given your recently-trimmed salary."

"Won't that take me like, 25 years to pay off?"

"Pah, 21! PLUS you'll get 10% off your first purchase!"

"10%! Do you know what this means?!" i enthused, my mind racing with the possibilities.

"I certainly do. You can buy 10% MORE gifts. That means you can even buy for a few co-workers you don't even like! Come on, let's face it. This is NOT the time to hide behind flimsy excuses like 'your budget' and 'the economy'."

"You're absolutely right. What're you waiting for?! Sign me up!" I smiled beatifically at the saviour of my family's holiday happiness as she ran my instant credit app.

****

Okay, so it didn't quite happen like that, but that's how it feels when every person who works at the store stuffs instant credit apps in my face as i shop. So the tacky holiday tradition i'd like to see done away with: companies trying to strong-arm me into fiscal irresponsibility by pushing credit cards on me (that i know damn well i can't afford), using the illusion that holiday happiness comes from a store.

Jake

Old age weren't easy on Jake. He walked unsteady and uncoordinated, like each leg wanted t' go its own way, not mindin' where he wanted t' go. My Daddy said it was cause he'd been chained up a lot, and bein' yanked back by the chain damaged his spine and his nerves. Or somethin' 'long those lines. My uncle called 'im his Crippled-Up-Old-War-Veteran. Anyway, he couldn't hardly walk, and toward the end he needed help standin' up, too. He looked vicious as hell, but he was a big ole softy with bad gas. I shit you not. When he farted, you could see his whole butt hole open up t' let out the cloud, and i swear you could see it before it hitcha. I never knew anyone or anything that could clear a room as fast as Jake, Lord rest his soul.

Fish in particular tickled 'im. My uncle would bring 'im over, and instead of playin' with our dogs (which was real hard on his joints), he'd park that big smelly ass in front of our fish tank and look at it for hours. Sometimes he'd sit there quiet-like, and other times he'd get riled up watching them fish swim round. He'd fidget and whine at em. He'd bump the tank with his nose and yip. He'd breathe heavy, his tongue lollin' out the side of his mouth. When he wasn't lickin' at the glass. He reminded me of my uncle and my daddy (hollerin' at) watchin' the game with all that carryin'-on, only my uncle and dad never licked at the TV. I sure miss that old boy.

Montserrat Rocks Bristle Ridge's Face Off

Rob, Jim, Angie and I gathered up our hangover collection and stumbled out the door Saturday morning on our planned trip to the Montserrat Winery outside Knob Noster, Missouri (yeah, yeah, go ahead and snicker at the Nosters of Knobs- i sure as hell did). It wasn't a long trip, maybe thirtyish minutes. The brochure we'd read promised tours and tastings and unique gifts, and i was very excited about it, having never actually been to a winery before.

Our exit held a wonderful surprise for us: right next door to our destination was Bristle Ridge Winery! We hadn't noticed it at first on the brochure, but sure enough, they, too boasted tours, tastings, and unique gifts. Two wineries in one trip. . .fucking score! Bristle Ridge was actually before Montserrat, so we stopped there first.

We parked on the hill and climbed up to a large, surprisingly elegant covered patio nestled among absolutely stunning landscaping. The patio sported high, round tables and chairs, each with a little brazier in the center to keep the winers warm as the weather cooled. Inside, we were greeted by a weird odor and more elegance: the chandelier, the light fixtures, the hardwood floors, the fire place, and the bar were all beautifully ornate and candle-lit. The bar was tended by an old lady polishing a wine glass with a towel and an air of superiority. She smiled perfunctorily at us as we entered, and asked if she could help us. She really looked as though she'd rather not. Help us, that is.

Rob approached her and asked if we could take the tour. She coolly informed him that there were no tours at this winery, and not-quite-demanded to know who told us we could take a tour. Angie produced the brochure, which the Bar Crone barely even glanced at before crisply telling us that there were no tours. She stared at Rob with Will That Be All? Face, but to her ill-concealed dismay, he asked if we could get a tasting. She said of course we could, and produced a wine/price list before returning to the vigorous glass-polishing we'd so rudely interrupted.

The wine list looked about how we'd expect a wine list to look except for the price: tastes were two bucks each, for a two ounce sample. Somehow i didn't think this winery produced dollar-per-ounce quality wine, but i was eager to get on with trying to salvage my souring first-winery experience. We talked about which wines we wanted to try, and then looked back at the Bar Crone, who studiously ignored us.

I decided to go and have a look at the Unique Gifts, since they were the only thing left on the brochure that hadn't disappointed me yet. They were varied and wine-related, and expensive, but i found a few things i liked and i was trying to decide what i wanted to buy when Jim went to step out for a smoke. Now, we all had obviously arrived together: we all piled out of the same car, walked up and entered together, and spoke familiarly with one another; in short, we were clearly at the winery as a group. But when Jim went to the door, cigarette in mouth, the Bar Crone looked up and dismissively thanked him for coming as though he was going to leave without the rest of us.

I probably don't need to mention that her Thanks For Coming sounded more like a Get The Hell Out Of My Tasting Room. We all looked at each other, and Rob shrugged.

"Well, if you want us to leave, we will," he said, and the rest of us headed for the door. She didn't thank the rest of us for coming. I later learned that the Bar Crone was the owner.

That's right. The. Owner. (Well, she and her husband). I wouldn't have believed how rude she was if i hadn't just experienced it myself.

By contrast, the atmosphere at Montserrat was warm and inviting. The tasting room smelled terrific, and the guy working the bar greeted us like he might have actually been glad to see us. The decor lacked the elegance of Bristle Ridge, there were fewer gifts to browse, and no tours were offered here either, but we were offered a wine list as soon as we walked in, the samples were FREE, the bar guy was friendly, and he actually gave us samples once we'd made up our minds!

We tasted several wines, including a chocolate wine (that's right- Chocolate!). The wines were tasty, and Bar Guy told us about the local wine industry while we sampled. Never at any point did we feel rushed or unwelcome, and my disappointment evaporated as though Bristle Ridge never happened. After some great wine and conversation, we bought a few bottles and left with good memories and a mental note to return next time we came through Knob Noster. Oh, and the Bar Guy? Not an owner, just an employee. It's a sad, sad day when an employee treats the clientele better than the owner of an establishment.

Snippet From Oklahoma #1

I arrived at my Nana's house after a rather exhausting trip in my Jeep. For those who've never taken a road trip in almost-winter in a Jeep. . . well, it's far, far less than comfortable. I won't bore you with the details, but i will say that the only road trips Jeeps are meant for are ones in the summer, with the top down.

There were hugs all around, trips to the bathroom, unpackings, and ploppings down on furniture more suited to being sat on for extended periods (made all the more comfortable by the relative discomfort we'd sat in for the last 8ish hours). We were the last to arrive; my aunt, cousin, sister, brother-in-law, niece and nephew were already there. Nana, Aunt Trisha, my cousin Corrinne, and my niece Morgan were all dressed to go out, and Nana invited us to go with. It was a Thanksgiving dinner at my Aunt Jan's church.

I'd been to Aunt Jan's churches before (i think this one was a different one, but after the previous two, i didn't hold out much hope for improvement), and i wasn't of a mind to go be dressed up in uncomfortable clothing, and sit among people who made me uncomfortable after a long uncomfortable trip, so i declined. Nana turned to my nephew, Carter, and asked if he'd like to come to dinner with his sister. Carter looked dubiously up from his Nintendo DS.

"At a church?"

"Yes."

"Noooo-ho-ho-ho. No."

Confession (Dew Write)

Mass Merriment <---- Click that if you wanna know what it's all about.

She snatched the sheet off the pad and wadded it up. Another ball for the basket, and she'd missed it again. This time she didn't bother getting it up to retrieve it; undoubtedly, there'd be more to follow. She frowned at the growing pile of fail in the waste basket next to her desk, disapproving her own inadvertent cliche.

Did he give her any signs? She searched her memories and found them sitting together, chatting companionably at the kitchen table. She remembered feeling full to bursting with feelings for him, but he seemed not to notice. She remembered a few other times of being alone with him, and it was always the same comfortable chat. She remembered barely being able to focus on what he was saying, only wanting to take his face between her small hands, and guide his lips to hers, but if he noticed, he gave no sign.

She looked away from the frustration to ply the pen to the waiting page, and then withdrew it again. The paper stared blankly back at her, offering pressure instead of inspiration. What If tripped her pen, mussing her neat, wispy hand. What if she chose the wrong words and he didn't understand? What if she chose the right words and he didn't care?

What if he did? The thrill and the anxiety and the What If would be gone, replaced by warmth. Not that warmth was bad! She welcomed warmth, but there was always a feeling of loss; of something missing once they abandoned the refuge and cowardice of willful unknowing. Once she looked over that cliff, she'd see the bottom. Reality would replace dream, and while she rejoiced in the solid, actual Him, she would mourn the fantastical, intangible Him. He would fulfill her. He would let her down. He would would love her.

But not right.

Emerging from her reverie, she turned back to her letter, fancying both his acceptance and his rejection with equal parts longing and dread. Ah, but the release! At least she'd have that, and What If relaxed its grip on her pen.

Beloved,

It's been ten days and seven hours since i almost kissed you. . .