Where Everybody Knows Your Name

One of the things I realized while being "home" is that "home" isn't necessarily always yours. I mean, sure, I remember most of the roads and how to get there from here. But there's no one there I can call on a whim to meet for a drink or a cup of coffee. Even my best friend from years gone by won't return my calls. I may or may not be responsible for that -- I wasn't sober enough to remember.

It's all caused me to wonder what makes a house a home. There's a gas station on the road out of Northampton where they know I don't take meat on my Supreme Omelet morning sandwiches. In Greenfield I like the bookstore that has honest to goodness people that will talk to you about books you like, don't like, and/or might like. I know every twist, turn, and police trap on Rt. 12 in New Hampshire from Ashuelot to Keene.

Are these the things make neighborhoods home? Or are they blips on the radar screen? Is it home when your kitties are comfortable enough to stop having skin rashes? Or knowing that your neighbors have a dog they call by only "Puppy?" How many months or years do you have to be in a place to have it count?

This is a question I would like to find the answer to. Maybe not right here, in this Old Apartment. But maybe. But, I think I'm getting old because I am, indeed, looking to find a home.

Ah the holidays

I'm home for the holidays. That is to say, I'm back in NJ at my parents' house, staying in my old bedroom, living out of a suitcase because most of the drawers in my dresser have storage stuff in them.

And - warning - I am getting highly agitated by my family. More specifically, my mother. My mother who, despite the fact she swears I'm her best friend, has no idea who I am. Or what's important to me. She's spent the whole day preaching about how ridiculous TomKat's wedding was and those religious that don't let people make up their own minds and tell people what they should do and what they should believe in and what's right and what's wrong and ... Oh The Irony. If the Roman Catholics had a Rosie the Riveter it would be my mom. Reenie the Repenter. Or the Converter. Or something. And, me? Hi, Have we met? Card Carrying Pagan.

And then there's the fact that she's been complaining ad nauseum for two days about how much weight she's gained. And for dinner she had two pieces of pie and a carton of coffee ice cream. Let me repeat that - pie and ice cream.

It's like my friend who whines all the time about her money worries ..... And so she goes out and buys a REALLY expensive mattress. Because it's her bed, right, that's keeping her from sleeping. Not her insecurity/unsecurity. Right?

There's a lot of things that drive me nuts. (Try tho I do to espouse lovingkindness.) But one thing that really gets me road raging is when people bitch about their situation while actively working to encourage that exact situation.

It's like complaining about how you hate always being hung over while you're pouring your fifth vodka martini.

So, tomorrow is Thanksgiving and I should be concentrating on gratitude and not being a bitch. But, there you have it, folks. Now you know the real me. Unfortunately, my moods don't follow a calendar.

$42.81

I went to the store tonite -- I needed an avocado and some caffeine (I can't admit to my poison of choice). I also wanted to pick up some boxed/canned goods for the food drive at my office building.

I put the things I wanted in the front of the card -- the kiddie seat. I put the rest of the stuff in the main cart. There were so many cans - soups, veggies, and sauces. I finally stopped because I was worried how expensive it would be.

It cost me $42.81 in all. Rice, pasta, soup, beans - yes folks, even tuna fish from the veghead - enough food for weeks on end. And it cost $42.81. Made me feel really damn guilty about the $37 lunch Mr. Zips and I indulged in on Sunday. Not to mention the $75 I spent on my hair and eyebrows today.

It sounds Brady Bunch, but I do think this is what Thanksgiving is about. Forget the petty family squabbles, forget trying to hit the gym every day for fear of getting fat. Thank Heaven, God, Goddess, Universe, whatever...... that I don't need to rely on some corporate flunky to mitigate her middle class guilt by buying the food I'll eat for dinner.

Sometimes, it's very very good to be a middle-class corporate flunky.

My Hand Hurts

There are times when the worlds of life and work collide. And it is at those times you must realize what -- and who -- is important to you.

This weekend was not a banner weekend in my life. Got home from yoga and found three voicemails on the phone and the phone ringing. The tradeshow booth graphics hadn't arrived. Where were they? And while I didn't know where they were, nor was I responsible for getting them there, I went into the office, tracked the shipment and made mucho mucho phonecalls.

Years ago, the entire situation -- the botched event, the pissy account manager, the Sunday afternoon calls from the boss -- would have REALLY stressed me out. And, yes, I *DID* get a migraine and hit the wall with my fist, bruising my entire hand.

But I also turned off my phone and spent most of the day incommunicato in the mall with Mr. Zips. Pretending to be that White Trash couple and basically hamming it up for all to see. And, while I didn't get the curtains I was looking for, I realized that Mr. Zips is probably one of the most wonderful human beings to ever grace this planet.

We didn't write the entire day off and giggle it all away. But we did manage to mitigate the pain and stress with our love and our humor.

I might not be standing on a street corner with a sharp, expensive suit and the latest cutting edge technology keeping me posted of the most recent developments of the latest deal. But I have a partner in my life who makes me laugh, sends me electronic flowers, takes more pictures of my cats than I do, and - oh yea - is amazing in bed.

Life, my friends, is very, very good.

Roll Up the Pants

I work for a man (who we'll call Napolean) who loves to hear himself talk. Which is good because he sure as anything doesn't like to put anything in print. (Unless, of course, sarcastic, biting, inappropriate emails count.) And, when he talks, the BS starts a flowin.

And, honestly, I just do not know how to handle him. I'm not one of those people that puts on a poker face. I have *NO* internal gate to keep some thoughts in and let some thoughts out. So when he starts waxing eloquent, how, oh Universe, how?, do I let on that I think he's the biggest jackass in the world?

I guess it helps that just about everyone in the office thinks of him that way too.

How sad it must be to be the laughingstock of the entire company and suspect -- but not really know -- it.

Gee, I feel better already. Thank you, blogger.com