Dancing: Episode 3 "Game on!"

 

You know those activities you do, where you can let your hair down and be you? There's something for everyone --- Enter: NASCAR. 

Dancing is for me, what driving around in circles is for that guy with the dual-beer-hard-hat. The endorphin-release is addicting... and can somewhat cloud my judgment. For me, it's times like these that maturity becomes less necessary. With that disclaimer in mind, I'll explain a couple of the games we tend to play while dancing. 

That's-What-She-Said Game:

You're familiar with the pop-culture antics of  Michael Scott (The Office)  and the "That's what she said" tag, right? Same concept applies. Should you find your mind recognizing a what-could-be sexual reference, you shout "THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID" -- and here's where the game begins; if you are not the originator of the thought you have to quickly touch your nose... The last player with a finger to their nose loses and is then forced to make a sex noise. Those are the rules.

You can learn a lot about a person playing this game. And I'm not just talking about their dexterity. 

It gets to the point that everyone's minds have been brought down to the same level, and you may as well keep your finger on your nose. I've laughed myself to tears too many times to count. You'll find that the game is about done (but even more fun to play) when you hear one of your friends say: "What? Guys! That one doesn't even make sense... UUUUHHHHH Heh Heh Heh Oooooo!" (MAJOR brownie points to you if you just read that last paragraph out loud to someone.)

Give it a try with your friends. Enjoy!

My Team Game:

This game certainly extends beyond the dance floor for my closest girlfriends. The funny thing is I can’t really explain the rules of sport since I’m still in the process of constructing ‘my team’…. Then again, you could say creating the team IS the sport.

The goal is simple: Create a dream team. That is, the best of the best in every category. You want to make sure your team can kick any other team’s butt - at anything and everything. And that's it. 

Let me explain what playing the game looks like;

We (the aforementioned girlfriends and I) go dancing all the time, right? Walking into a crowded club with easily a few hundred people, it becomes almost necessary to start calling dibs on potential teammates. You see a good looking fella? You call "my team". And he's on your team. Easy win! You see an awesome dancer? No sweat, just beat your friend to the punch by vocalizing "my team", another easy win. ... Simple, but fun. 

In the reverse (or you could say "defense") you can also play the same game like this:

Say you are flying home via a crowded airport... see that one guy's nasty ponytail? Snap a picture to send to your girlfriend with the caption "Ponytail: Your team"... All calls are final, so she can't argue. The most gratifying of wins? Just bid that guy, the one your age who you caught checking out your grandma's pink-plaid tush, "your team". No need to feel offended that your silver-jean-co clad rear didn't grab his attention, just gift him to another team. One less handicap for your team gives you an advantage! 

The teammate doesn't have to agree to the draft or trade. Actually, very rarely do they know they've even been selected. 

The game has become particularly brutal between me and one of my best friends. (Remember Judy?) The competitiveness stems from our unnaturally similar tastes. We tend to go after the same guy, every. freaking. time. ---  "My Team" has saved our friendship, and probably our lives. 

And besides, we know you're a little bored with all the  "Team Edward" or "Team Jacob" nonsense.

Anyway. It's all fun and games. But just remember, if life really is a team sport -- you certainly want to be on MY Team.

-Mag

Toenails and Tightie-Whities have no place in the work-place...

(For effect: This was meant to be posted on/around Halloween.)

   

There is something to be said for having "Cooth". One of grandmother's greatest fears was that I would grow up not having any, and I know this because on a daily basis she would find reason to ask me if I had it. She was as persistent with this line of questioning as she was about making sure I always had on clean underwear. I could never fully understand her fascination with my possession of some strange Scottish coloquilism or the state of my panties..... That is, I couldn't until recently.

At a work event over Halloween I met the embodiment of my grandmother's worst fear in the form of one of my clients. He certainly lacked any Cooth, and gave me first hand knowledge about the state of his undergarments in one of the most traumatic experiences I've had in my office to date. 

To begin my story, it's worthy of note that the unfortunate placement of my office situates me very close to the office bathroom (which gives me uncomfortable perspective on the bowel patterns of my coworkers) and it is this fact for which I blame the run-in I had with Mr. No-Cooth. 

He had approached me looking for a gym bag he had sent in with his son earlier that morning. This isn't unusual, we will do searches in the large bathroom adjacent to my office when our residents come and go from the facility. I told him that the bathroom was currently occupied, but that we would look once it was open. 

"Great." he said, "I am pretty sure my socks are in there. I'm on day 3 with the ones I'm wearing right now - I really could use a change." 

I just stared at him. 

Not that there wasn't like a million- or exactly 3- things going through my mind at that exact moment though.

First; WHY would this man be wearing the same pair of socks he left his home state with, when I KNOW he'd been checked into the hotel down the street for 2 days? ... The same hotel that is conveniently located near a Wal*Mart..... They sell socks at Wal*Mart.

Second; WHY would you share that kind of information with a stranger? What could possibly be gained by disclosing the status of your socks in casual conversation? ... Was I supposed to feel pity? Was I supposed to feel a bond of closeness because, at some point in life, surely everyone wears the same pair of socks for 3 days in row?... Clearly my conversation etiquette has a few gaping holes if there is an obvious way to react and converse in this situation.  

Third; (And maybe this was my overactive imagination) I immediately started to smell the nasty-man-corn-chip smell that usually accompanies men's gym bags and college dorm bedroom carpets. ... With this thought, I was tormented with the onslaught of instant nausea. I had to brace myself against a wall to keep from hunching over the trash can. 

The smell had little but dissipated when the bathroom became free and he retrieved the gym bag. The next thing I knew he was sitting down, AT MY DESK, and changing his socks. I stared at him in horror. I was only half aware that he was talking to me, saying something like "I just hate to put on dirty socks after a shower, it feels so wrong!". I really don't remember much of what he said, as most of my attention was focused on holding down the bile in the back of my throat, until I heard him declare "Look at those toenails!"... To this day, what continues to baffle me is his tone of pride behind that statement. 

And, y'all, I couldn't help myself. I looked. 

That hue of green has denied me of any appetite for split pea soup.... forever. Enough said.

Once his socks were replaced, I saw him gather in his hands the clothing he had discarded on my desk - including the corn-chip smelling socks... only there was more than socks. I distinctly noticed the blue and yellow line that don the Fruit Of The Loom waist band. I couldn't believe it. The man had the audacity to place his questionably clean tightie-whities, on my desk!! I had no idea where they came from, and I didn't want to know. I was far too absorbed with the thought of sanitizing my entire work space with Lysol, and creating ways to avoid crying myself to sleep at night. 

It was days before I could fully describe the horror of the situation to my coworkers and friends, and it came to me as I made the connection in my mind between those years as a child when my grandmother demanded an answer to the question "Ain't you got no Cooth?" and Mr. No-Cooth's actions that morning.

I was sure my grandmother rolled over in her grave. And maybe his grandmother too.... and every other self-respecting, cooth-reminding, ever-loving grandmother that ever lived.

Truly, there is something to be said for having Cooth. 


-Mag

I've Got No Strings (iGNS): Pilot Episode

You know that feeling you get when someone starts to tell you about their up-coming trip to Australia, and how it's going to be even better than their trip to South Africa (where they got to attend a few world-cup soccer matches) -- and how even though you kinda hate soccer and never really have the ambition to leave the U.S., you find yourself thinking "I hate people like that!" out of jealousy?

I've never actually felt that way.

At least, not for more than 60 seconds. 

It takes me about that long to remember I'm often accused of being "people like that". I may not make my way over seas, but I put a lot of time and miles into other destinations. In fact, my recent disappearance from this scene has been due to 5 separate get-aways I've had since May. My domestic traveling has made for several great stories, many of which deserve their own posts  - -  which brings me to another instalment of a soon-to-be-fave series. This one I call: iGNS.


I have always loved the song from Disney's Pinochio, "I've got no strings". Especially the 3rd verse - It's like it was written about me! Herein lies the significance to this series' title: 

I’ve got no strings so I have fun, I’m not tied up to anyone.
They've got strings but you can see,
There are no strings on me!

So without further adeau, Episode 1: Road Trip to Nowhere (Pilot)

About a year ago now, myself and 2 friends met up for dinner to catch up and talk about the woes of working and dating. Much like we all do, we vocally fantasized about the idea of running away. Just picking up and leaving. No forwarding address, no saying when we'd return.  The only difference between this night a year ago and every other night like it? We were 95% more serious than usual. 


One of my friends, Judy* (*name changed for the sake of protecting identities of the innocent)  had previously created a bucket list -PLUG: I highly endorse these!- and one of her goals was a trip to nowhere... to just get in the car and drive. No plans. No destination. Just explore. This seemed like a perfect fit to our wild ambitions of running away. So with our new resolve, we decided a time to meet up a week later, which we did. We had pillows, blankets, junk food, Twinkies (which are their own classification of junk food), iPods, and a something that could only be described as "insanity", so we hit the road. We had no idea where we were going, we just picked a direction (North) and drove.


We spent the most exhilarating 55 hours on the road, ever.  These are the highlights;


5 hours in;  



A little of our excitement had started to wane, especially as stomachs started to growl. (Twinkies weren't very appetizing in that moment). We decided to stop for food. In the first "big city" we came to we found a random car show at a local burger joint. We ate the greasiest of burgers - all the while oogling Mustangs and their owners. I was tempted to place money on a hot-wheels race they had set up for kids, but thought better of it and walked away. With full stomachs our status quo had been restored, and we were on the road again.


11 hours in;



We had gotten a late start in the day because of work schedules, so it was close to 3am when "the wall" started to hit. You know "the wall", the one that literally shuts your body down without permission? Makes you start to maybe hallucinate? Yeah... we were seeing spaceships (Later, in the daylight, we discovered these were turbines). Clearly the wall had affected all three of us, so we stopped at the first hotel we found. A Motel 6, now endearingly referred to as "Hooker Motel". ----- Why Hooker Motel, you ask? Because we were NOT hallucinating when we sent in Dee (*also innocent and staying that way) to pay for the room and watched as two young ladies left two young men in the parking lot to go pay, in CASH, for TWO rooms, only to watch them separate and "check in" minus luggage. Also. I'm pretty sure this was the most disgusting hotel I've ever stayed in. The lady behind the bullet proof (STD proof) glass promised she would give us the room that "didn't smell as weird" (AS weird? wtf?) In fact, since the room had a smell, she wouldn't charge us the $3 extra dollars for the 3rd adult, but she just couldn't discount the mini fridge in the room, so she tacked on $3 dollars for a fridge that only kept my luggage from the lice (crab) infested carpet... I was too tired to catch on that I was being screwed (no pun intended) out of a good deal here. I'm telling you, I was afraid of venereal disease just by association. We slept, if you can call it that, for about 4 hours then left - never to return. 



19 hours in; 

Judy has connections with a major league baseball team in the next big city we found, and was able to get us some free tickets which usually makes my male friends drool with jealousy. We were situated right behind home plate, about 10 rows up. I had a nice view of the batters' bum... and given my lack of interest in major league baseball, that's about all I chose to watch. While we were at the game we met up with some other connections we had in town. Locals. And we asked for a little self guided tour.



21 hours in; 


We found ourselves walking through a HUGE open fish market and swap meet. It was amazing to watch fish fly, smell different varieties of fry break, and hear hippies play Ocarinas-- it was almost sensual overload. But. I would say the most fun to see was this incredible piece of vandalism/art in a alley below the market. For years people would dispose of their ABC gum (c'mon, you know, Allready Been Chewed) on this wall in this alley. What resulted was about half a city block, 20 feet high, speckled in every color and flavor gum imaginable. Of course we had to leave our mark! I posed for a few pictures which have since been the controversial topic of conversation among other friends. (Okay, maybe I "kissed" the wall! Big deal!) But I will tell you the same thing I tell those nay-sayers! I would definitely risk herpasyfulitis (<herpa-seffa-litus> that's herpes, syfullous, and hepatitis, rolled into one) to touch the wall again. But maybe my judgement is just a little skewed after having stayed at the "Hooker Motel"....? *Shrug* -- Oh well. 




... TO BE CONTINUED. 


In the next episode! --- The trip to nowhere is continued with; A town made famous by a book, Gun shots at the Norman Bates Motel, The most beautiful beach on the north west coast, Waterfalls from my childhood, and more on Twinkies. 


++ Please comment your interest in seeing this series continued. 


-Mag

A day all about me

((Writers note: The following was a victim of blogger's crash - it was supposed to be posted May 12. Most of it was lost in the fall-out, but "take two" isn't so bad... I guess.))


I was born at an early age. (<= My favorite "dad joke") --- I was a perfect, pink, alien looking thing with 10 fingers and 10 toes and a bow glued to my head. I was precious. And since that blessed day in May (26 years ago) people have celebrated my birth at regular intervals.

Typically the celebration is an annual event, but as I was my parents' first child, my first year had a few extra milestone birthday parties. The newness of life they had created was exhilarating to them, and they felt it important to recognize my adeptness to growing and aging... Due to lack of context, things like my aging from one month to two months (therefore doubling my life experience to date) seemed celebratory. I find it very similar to teenagers in relationships who celebrate anniversaries monthly, again due to a serious lack of context. But! To each their own. It's as great as any other reason to make a cake and set it on fire.


More than the cake was the parties though. When my parents celebrated my 6 month/half year birthday they made half a cake and other “half” portion themed treats, wrapped my presents half way, let me play with half-inflated party balloons, and sang me half the birthday song. The neighborhood was invited of course. It was legendary. And all this for a 6-month-old who looked like a chubbier version of the same baby they celebrated a month prior. You can imagine the kind of birthdays I’ve had to live up to. The bar was set many many years ago.


I’m certain my parents have often wondered if they’ve created a monster. (To clarify; the birthday parties are the monster, not me.) I've done everything from pinatas and tail pinning games, to camp-outs, to orchestrating an all out birthday-cake-in-the face food fight. (Yes, it was epic.) It's gotten to the point now that I have birthWEEKS vs. old fashioned birthDAYs. ... At 26, I'm a little exhausted as I think about how my birthdays have evolved.


Maybe it's my new-found "old age", but here's what my being reminiscent of old birthdays has helped me to discover;


At age 6 I would beg and plead with my parents to let me plan my own birthday party. I was more creative then. More enthusiastic. At age 26 I resort to dropping hints (beginning in April) in hopes that someone else will just surprise me, and plan my party for me.  


At age 6 there were cute little invitations, sent weeks in advance, when people understood the phrase "RSVP". -- At age 26 we create facebook events or send a mass text message to everyone in our contacts list, maybe 24 hours prior to the event, counting on at least 25 out of 100 showing up. 


At age 6 it was all about the themes and decorations (which would correlate with the invitations, by the way). Banners, streamers, balloons, the works. If any of my 6 year old friends came without a tiara, they were scorned. At age 26, there's no decorations. No theme. If someone were to show up in costume, they'd not be invited back. Ever. 


At age 6 I knew everyone at my birthday party. In fact, I would invite my entire class on the simple truth: more people = more presents. At age 26, there's no gifts... And I'm really trying to figure out how I know that guy in the corner...


At age 6 a birthday card from grandma would suffice. At age 26, I have this compulsive need to log onto facebook 50 times in one day to see how many *friends (*people I haven't seen or spoken to since my LAST facebook birthday) remembered me and took the 10 seconds to draw up some original form of "Happy Birthday, hope its a good one!"


At age 6, maybe it's just me, but the "happy birthday song" seemed a little peppier, more bouncy. (Again, maybe this has something to do with a level of enthusiasm?) At age 26, it's all we can do to make it not sound like a ballad gone wrong. Very wrong. 


At age 6 blowing out the candles wasn't a difficult task. At age 26 I just pray that one breath, minus spittle, will get the job done. 


At age 6 I would shamelessly eat birthday cake and ice cream, lots of ice cream. At age 26 I chew on ice chips and imagine it tastes the way I remember cake to be. Even birthdays can't excuse my obsession for calorie counting. 


At age 6 party games were simple, fun, and innocent. At age 26, without the Xbox or Wii and a few "hard drinks", we'd be bored out of our ever living minds.  


At age 6, there were party favors. Pencils, noise makers, stickers. At age 26.... if I can't remember who the guy in the corner is, how am I supposed to remember to buy party favors?! 


At age 6 I avoided birthday spankings like the plague. At age 26, I've got my special undies on hoping this year the spankings are a little more erotic. (After all, in the words of Gaga; 'if it's not rough, it isn't fun!')


You see what I mean? .... Birthdays are different so now, that's for sure. 


I have concluded that there is at least one thing that hasn't really changed though. I'm still really adept at this aging thing. In truth, it can't be stopped. I'm going to get older, I'm going to continue to grow. But, I have to say, I think I'm doing it rather gracefully -- 


So, here's to me. Grab a piece of cake on fire and eat it in my honor, I'm happy to share. 


Happy Birthday-MONTH to me!  




-Mag




*This post is dedicated to B and J who picked up the hints, invited everyone (including the guy in the corner), and provided the drinks. Thanks for making 26 rock - so far! Love to you both. 

Dancing: Episode 2 "Single is to Mingle..."

Single is to Mingle... like work is to paying taxes... and old rusty nails are to tetanus shots... Or Lady Gaga is to outrageously tacky leotards; 

...It's an unfortunate pair. 

But! You can't have one without the other. The longer I'm single, the more that truth is apparent. Single IS to mingle. 

Mingling is a numbers game. It's a matter of weeding through the weirdies to find a few decent people. The more people you meet, the more you are likely to find someone to date, marry, and mate with. Makes me think my grandmother had it right when she'd tell me "You have to kiss a few frogs to find your prince". I guess in the end you only need ONE to pan out, right? ... I'll take those odds. 

In Episode 1, I mentioned one of my favorite modes of mingling: Dancing. This episode pays tribute to the weirdie-hall-of-fame-ers found on the dance floor. The following are 6 brief stories, based on actual events. 

Leather Coat Guy

Leather Coat guy was suave in the beginning. It's likely because he practiced his few good lines in front of the mirror every day, and recycled them over and over again with each new woman he met. "Where's the line?... the line to dance with you beautiful!" he'd say. His flirting did lead to a first date (which I'm sure he's also had a lot of practice with) but he was a totally different guy then, full of back handed compliments like "You look great, I'd almost say you you're high maintenance - but in a good way!" and "You're so fun! I was scared you didn't have any personality!". His conversation also left something to be desired, asking far too personal questions for a first date. Needless to say there wasn't a second date, but that wasn't the end of Leather Coat guy. Two years later he showed up to another dance wearing the same leather coat (in summer!) and dropping the same lines. And, in spite of his saying "I want to date you" on that first date, there was no recognition in his eyes this summer evening. "Bet you've never had a guy in a leather coat hit on you before!" he said. I couldn't believe it. That was returned with an "Actually, I have" as we left him sputtering off his pre-rehearsed lines to other unsuspecting females. Fast forward 2 months later and we run into LCG again, only this time he remembered every little detail from the first date, including personal information. It was creepy...

My personal theory is that he has multiple personalities... now if only he could work on multiple pick up lines...    

Language Barrier Guy

Language Barrier Guy is sort of the poster child for what's wrong with several of the "frogs" I've come in contact with while dancing. It's hard enough to hear someone who is hell bent on having a conversation with you over music played at dangerous decibels, but when you add to that a language barrier - you might as well find something to stare at and count down the minutes until the song is over. I had a devil of a time trying to communicate with him. He'd say something (I'm pretty sure came out) in English, and I'd nod or offer a non-committal phrases like "Yeah, right!". After which he'd respond with a look of confusion which let me know I had clearly misunderstood. He'd say something else, motioning with his hands for demonstration, and I'd giggle nervously and offer another cover-all word like "okay!". It was awful. Seriously folks, for all I knew he was telling me about how his dog suffered a tragic death earlier that day... or the burning he feels when he urinates.

Either way, after no less than 7 attempts to learn each other's name and start a conversation, LBG found something to stare at and count down the minutes. (Thank you push-up bra!). 

Prospector Joe

If you're into old westerns (which I'm not) you'd easily picture this next character. He's old, and round everywhere. Round face with round wire glasses and a round belly accented with a large round belt buckle. He's missing a few teeth, and really into digging for gold. (I mean that last part metaphorically, because the places I saw him "digging" were unlikely to produce any gold.) He was also a recovering alcoholic.... of 3 days.... and only because he ran out of liquor. PJ lacked a few manners and any concept of personal space. He never asked you to dance, instead he'd hold out his hand assumability  - or help himself to your waist and whisk you away. He was a dance-floor stalker too. Every time you'd turn around, there he was! Later that night (or maybe it was morning) he followed us to Denny's. We had to recruit a few fellas by that point and assign them as body guards. Joe eventually wandered off to mine for gold elsewhere. 

He-ate-my hair Guy

By far the creepiest story I have to tell tonight is the story of He-ate-my-hair guy. Or Paulo. He was ethnic, and like LBG was unable to clearly communicate with words. I believe at one point he tried saying "jour seester, she is bootyful. But jew are muy muy bootyful!" which is supposed to translate into a compliment, somehow. He was very affectionate and insisted on similar affection. He'd caress his partner's neck and kiss everything he could, then he'd pull her face in to kiss his neck/face/lips. A bit forward, right? Nothing could be worse than being raped in such a manner on the dance floor. Or so we thought. There was one point while he was dancing with my friend that he ran his hands through her short blonde mane, and made to smell it. Before she could shrug away he placed a chunk of her hair in his mouth like someone might place a rose during a romantic tango. (He was Latin, maybe he was improvising?)  Entirely disturbed, my friend pushed him away but he held on close. As a bystander to the whole event it was rather hilarious to watch. When my friend returned to our circle she had on a look of disgust. "Was he trying to eat you?" we asked, assuming she was most upset about his slobbering on her hair. In fact, that was the least of her worries. "I think he had an erection on my leg.... should I be flattered?" 

She'd-tap-that Girl

Not all of the hall-of-fame-ers are male. This entry belongs to a very sexually charged young woman who we've run into on more than one occasion. She typically comes alone, so she has adopted us as her gaggle of girl friends to chat with during the fast songs... They say you are at your sexual prime in your early 30's, and I can understand that. I suppose I just assumed by that point you'd also know what you want... but She'd-tap-that girl is anything but sure. She would hit on every man in the room, old or young, but she'd also hit on their dance partners. Basically anyone that was breathing was her type.  And you know? I'm not a critic of same-gender attraction, but it's one thing to allow your girlfriends to grope you, in jest, and  another thing altogether when the playfulness is gone - it's rather uncomfortable. 'Your honkers (who calls them that anyway?) are so perky tonight, I love it!" she'd say with her lisp. Then "Girl, you look hot tonight. I'd tap that.... No really, I would. There's a room upstairs.... Ok, I'm kidding.... But seriously, my house is 4 blocks away!... Haha! I'm just being funny.... Unless you're into that sort of thing..."

As much as she seemed unsure about whether she was kidding or not, we were equally unsure of her gender preference and our comfort with her grabbing our "honkers". 

Mr. Red Shoes

Mr. Red Shoes is a beautiful Jamaican man... nearly perfect... aside from not understanding the word "no". His purpose was to help me to understand the importance of Red Shoes. And I share his story to illustrate the same for you. 

You see, my girlfriends and I have a code phrase which roughly translates into: "Get me the hell out of this situation!". All you have to do is bring up "red shoes" in casual conversation. We get the hint, and we remove the friend or the offending person. My Jamaican would follow me around, he put his number in my phone, and held me close. He fully intended to take me home that night, and was not taking my "no" for an answer. (Albeit, I'm sure my giggling didn't help him take me very seriously). To anyone looking in, I was into him and he was into me, and there should have been no interference. I wanted rescued though, maybe from myself as much as him. I would give my friends "looks" and beckon them over with my finger behind his neck... for which later I was scolded. My friends came up to me, asking where I had left my red shoes, and all I could do was giggle and say "in the car". I was rescued that night, but endured several phone calls later. I learned that my Jamaican was a professional baby maker and creator of single mothers, even if a very handsome one. 

---

So there you have it. The best of the worst. They, the (un)fortunate few, who have earned the hall-of-fame status.... One day, when my memory fades, I pray these are the first memories to go.  (smile)   Until then, I suppose if you were to ask me if I'll continue to pay my dues to the single-mingle-events?... you might be surprised to hear my non-hesitant "Yes!" -- 

I look at it this way: There are worse things in life. I mean, If Gaga can pull of green sequins invading her rear-end, I can certainly endure a few more awkward people on the dance floor. 

"You're a really nice girl... but..."

Sometimes I imagine the inside of my heart looks like this: 

Damp. Cold. Dark. 

And I hide there occasionally when I feel the need to console myself and lick my proverbial wounds. Usually I'm  etching a tally into the wall marking the Xth time I've heard the "you're a really nice girl" speech. Somehow, I believe it helps me stay sane. (If sanity is imagining your heart as a dark, cold, cellar that is.)

The speech is all too familiar, and easy to construct. It starts off with a "Don't get me wrong..." or one of it's variations. This, to me, is like the "we need to talk" line that makes any man nervous. It brings a sudden anticipation, or fear, for your ego. The orator will then typically add some fluffy compliment like "...you are wonderful/awesome/special/beautiful" Or "You are a really nice friend/person/human-being/girl". 

This line isn't important though, because it's always followed with a "but", and anyone who understands basic language composition knows "but" counteracts anything you just said. It's what comes after the "but" that matters. 

Usually, before they even take their next breath I'm digging around for rocks to drag along the cold, hard, wall of my heart. 

"Please understand... you're so awesome... but I just don't want to risk our friendship" 

Uh huh. I've also fallen victim to the "you're too awesome for me" line, but it's all cowardice. You know what? I have enough friends... Crap or get off the pot, friend. 

"Hear me out... I think you're really beautiful... but I'm gay."  

... Sadly, all the good ones are. 

"Don't get me wrong... you're a really nice girl... I'm just more interested in your friend." 

This would be my latest addition to the cellar wall. 

This guy had promise. Or so I thought. Things got weird around February 14th (which is to be expected), and we had a conversation about dating. No less than 24 hours after he told me "I'm just not ready to be in a relationship" I found that his relationship status on facebook had changed. (God bless social networking!) 


I was reeling with confusion but only had about a minute to think it through before things quickly evolved (as they often do in my neck of the woods) and his status hinted at "Engagement". Flabbergasted by this point, I was about to express my shocked-congratulation (with a white flag) when his status changed once again to "Single". 

(It really, almost literally, happened that fast.)

We had dinner earlier this week and he told me the tragic tale behind his whirlwind status jumping. (A classic plot of man #2 wishing he were man #1, but never quite making the cut.) It was sometime between the appetizer and main course he admitted he was ready to move on. It was over desert that he started to talk about "us". He wanted to insure I had not felt "mislead" in any way prior to his dating a tornado... Why? He confessed;

"I really wanted to make sure things were okay between us, because I wouldn't want things to be awkward for us later. Don't get me wrong," he says, and I may have lost all color in my face. "you're a really nice girl.... but I think I'm interested in your friend you introduced me to."

I can't even imagine why that might be awkward. (Sarcasm)  

It's been a few days now and I have mostly recovered. Logically, I understand that I have no desire to be woman #2, nor do I fair well in whirlwinds. Most importantly, my interest in him was long-gone before he uttered the words "Don't get me wrong". It's just that irrational side of me that has to wonder "What is wrong with me?"  

Apparently (and here's the lesson I choose to walk away with) what's wrong is I'm nice. The growing number of tallies don't lie. "You're a nice girl" they say...? well, no more! No sir, not me! I'm going to go steal candy from a babies, kick over garbage cans, ignore old ladies crossing the street, and when I feel particularly nasty? I'm going to slam the door in your face. ... Maybe then I'd actually get a second date.



-Mag 

Public kissing and other such phobias

I love my job.

There are countless perks to daily working in a thereputic environment, including as much "free therapy" as you can tolerate-- even if said thearpy is unsolicted... which it often is. I have adopted a phrase (among many of the other highly-therapeutic-terms in my vernacular, also perks to the job) which describes this occurrence best: Therap-own.


(Therap-own, /ing, /ed : To be "pwned" or "owned", therapeutically speaking.)


I suppose there is something to be said for the therap-owning I recived when my father passed away, or when conflict within my family drove me to near-madness. I'm not saying being therap-owned can't be helpful... but there are other times..... other times...


It should be mentioned that I have an extrodianry   personal bubble. It's a frequent topic of conversation among my co-workers, and my four bosses - who are also licensed therapists. -- My bubble is reinforced by several things I would casually say I am "terrified" of. In fact, it has less to do with personal space, and more to do with what I feel is reasonably allowed in my space. 


(I'm not going to lie, if it were anyone but me, I would probably find such neurosis just as fascinating. It would be highly entertaining to make a quest of popping such an extraordinary bubble. I see that.)

My poor bubble never stood a chance so clearly exposed in my place employment, the bosses therapists have a lot of material to use for their therap-owning. And therap-own, they do.



Every 3-4 months, approximately, my company will host a huge event for the families of the residents whom we serve. The parents and siblings are invited to come partake in the therapy-goodness, and then usually try something daring like rock climbing or trappese swinging. You can only imagine what sort of characters I meet.


One very memorable character had a knack for popping blowing my bubble to smitherenes. 


For the sake of confidentiality, we'll call him Antonio. It would be helpful if you pictured Antonio as a slimey, Italian, ex-mob boss, complete with gold chains for effect. - - Antonio was a bit of a womanizer. He also embraced a cultural greeting, of which I have never appreciated, whereby the greet-or hugs the greet-ee and exchanges a kiss on each cheeck. (*gagging sound*)


To my great and utter discomfort, I fell victim to his greetings more times than I wish to revel here. The day I realized I was the only one within my company he greeted in this way, I was reduced to tears. Not a dramatic display, no uncontrollable sobs, but tears. My bosses caught wind of my unfortuante episode and the therap-owning began.

I was bombarded with texted pictures like this one:

And this one:

And then this one: 

It was after a message attached to this last picture which said something like "This must have been you as a child, tell me, what's the real issue here?" I started to think there was more to this than teasing. 

Yes, apparently there is a form of treatment (respondent conditioning) where therapists will flood a suffering individual with images of something they fear in order to desensitize them by degree. (That's my definition anyway) It's a common treatment for phobias. 

Basically stated; I was being therap-owned. 

I have tried to explain to my therapists the validity of some of my fears and irrational thinking. Their response? More images:

It. Is. Terrifying. 

Whether the exposure therapy works or not is debatable. Part of me thinks if I didn't have any diagnosable PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) before, I certainly would have reason to now: I've had spiders dangled in front of me while on the phone with clients (thank goodness for a mute button!). I've endured a daily game called "how-many-people-can-we-fit-in-this-small-office?". And in spite of Antonio Jr.'s graduation from our program, I still get picture messages with Obama laying one on Hilary. 

The irony in all of this is that I may need treatment after working in treatment! 

But! Even with the occasional rubber spider prank... Even with 5 people in my 4x7 office... Even with slimey Italian man kisses... And even with all the "free therapy" I can (and will) tolerate... 

I do love my job. 

-Mag.