The Spokesman

Why is it that in some couples, one of the people always has to be the spokesman? Do you know what I am talking about?

I always see these couples who whisper with their heads together about things like which cake to order at Empire Cafe. I like to imagine them wearing all red or blue sweatsuits and helmets and that what they're really saying to the waiter/cashier/whoever is "We'll take the physical challenge."

It's usually the man who is the spokesman and I always feel sort of sorry for these women who feel that they are unable to order their own iced tea. The boyfriend/husband/friend always hunches over as the woman leans in and whispers "no ice," or "hold the onions."

Even weirder is that when counterstaff tries to address the silent partner, both spokesman and mime look as though they have been affronted. "Who dares to penetrate the cult of domesticity?!" Or Silent Bob(bie?) gets that deer in the headlights expression. Is a woman's mental individuality so threatening to the feminine ideal that forthrightness is suppressed in favor of the kind of communication that amounts to passing notes?

I think back in the day it was considered rather cavalier for a young man to order for his date in a fancy restaurant, but I mostly attend the sorts of establishments where you order at a counter and get a number or a tray. And oh yeah, it's 2003.


So ladies, remember: your voice is your vote and vice versa, so just say yes to being brave and ordering your own panini, sans goat cheese. This was not intended to be a feminist rant (though I happily own to being a feminist--the radical movement which declares women to be people! gasp!), but I guess that's what was really behind my irritation with the situation. So be it.

Additional Evidence

Now, probably none of you will need this, but just in case you needed further proof that Orlando Sanchez is the devil, I saw a billboard sponsored by Clear Channel endorsing him. Rather, it was encouraging citizens to vote, but it looked *strikingly* similar to the blue strip/black stripe Orlando Sanchez insignia (ensignia?).

---OR--- for fun times, you could also read the above like this.

Now, probably none of you will need this, but just in case you needed further proof that Clear Channel is the devil, I saw a billboard sponsored by Clear Channel endorsing Orlando Sanchez. Rather, it was encouraging citizens to vote, but it looked *strikingly* similar to the blue strip/black stripe Orlando Sanchez insignia (ensignia?).

The hilarious crux of the Orlando Sanchez-Clear Channel partnership is: one endorsing the other doesn't do either a damn bit of good because everyone knows they're both crooks.

It's kind of like Charles Manson and the Unabomber writing each others' recommendations for law school or something.

Can anyone explain this?

Anyone at all?

Banner hanging from Academy Sports & Outdoors (The Right Stuff. The Right Price. Yeah.): Gallon of Peanut Oil: $6.99.

Um. Thank you for that information.

For Your Information

A good rule of thumb is:

If you're backing up in your car, you should also have your head turned in that direction.

Just So You Know

I'm trimming the fat. And I don't mean I'm going to the gym regularly, though I am. (Admire my not quite svelte physique, won't you?)

I mean the time has come to purge myself of all the a-holes I seem to collect. They may have been a reflection of me at one time (eek!), but I'm sick of getting blown off, being nice to someone just because I am too spineless to be assertive and tell him to beat it, and also being treated in such a way as to lower my self-esteem.

To my self I'd like to say: I esteem you.

The process began a couple of weeks ago with the official removal of herpes guy and will continue on with a certain person who is a frequent topic, though rare visitor to this blog. I will additionally fire all those tardy for a pink slip these many months and for my final act, I will no longer hang out with people who are mean,sucky et al.

Self, are you with me?

"Yes! Esteem me!"

P.S. This does not mean I will discontinue one of my most favorite hobbies, which includes sitting around feeling sorry for myself.

Bust out your galoshes.

Well, my power just came back on. So that's good.

It's a *bit* rainy here, folks.

And by a bit rainy, I mean I was stranded for two hours trying to get 1 1/2 miles from my work to my home.

So now I'm home and I have electricity and everything. What's that? It looks like my street might be visible!

But for now, I'm stranded. Guess I'll finally get to work on my page.

And if you were wondering why you didn't get a text message from me during this wet time, I left it on my desk at work when I came home for lunch. Bravo!

Damn you Murphy and your damn law!

Only one thing left to do: pray for my car.

Papercut on My Heart

I am so fortunate as to have four women in my life, who have greatly impacted it and helped me to become the strong, compassionate woman I believe I am. My mom. My sister. E. S.

Their contributions to my life have been such that I know without their presence what they might say about an unfortunate pair of shoes, some jerk who made me cry, an opportunity lost, a hair-brained scheme, a decision pondered, or a job well done. Their internal companionship is a great comfort to me when, like now, they are far away. Yet their absence still leaves a small cut on my heart.

Sometimes you don't really feel a cut until you see it. You know it's not really bad, mostly superficial, but being aware of it, you also become aware of the sting. It doesn't pierce you to the core, but it throbs until you attend to it.

When I am lonely or scared or heartsick, and look to these women, I am often forced to turn inward and see my cuts. Did I not know they were there before? Of course I did. I knew, but I didn't have to look.

My tears salt these cuts and remind me that no matter how much I have internalized these women, the absence of one or all of them is a ubiquitous sting. One that there is no cup of tea soothing enough, no blanket warm enough, no book or movie distracting enough, no stretch of road long enough to ease.

When you're not here, I'll still be all right. I know I'll be fine.
When the dog bites. When the bee stings.
I have band-aids. I have anti-biotic goo.
I have other friends I love and need, too.

But I miss you. And I love you. And I can't wait to see you again.

Relative Stupidity

So now that we've all had a jolly good laugh at my being a member of the scientific community, I will reveal that for much of my middle and high school careers, I had visions of being a meteorologist. The drawback? One of the best (and among the few) meteorology schools was in Oklahoma. Whatever. Oklahoma is not that OK, in my opinion (Sorry Okies. I am from Texas, after all).

Back in the day, I used to build my own homemade weather instrumentation. I had a barometer and a psychrometer, which measures relative humidity, in continuous operation from 1992-1997 , at least. So, as you can imagine, I am well aware that "officially," when the psychrometer measures 100% relative humidity, it should be raining.

Yeah, that's false.

Why? Because when I lived in Colorado, it'd be like 2% relative humidity and it would rain anyway. (The ground promptly sucked up all moisture, but it was raining, even so.)

And now that I am a Houstonian, I all but swam to my car at the grocery store this morning. Was it raining? No. What was the relative humidity? Approximately 168%.

No. For real.

And no, I am not one of those people that encourages people to "give 110%." I am aware that 100% is all there is to give. (And frankly, expecting me to give 100% is rather lofty, don't you think? I do have to have some energy for breathing et al.)

Why I'm a Career Baby-Sitter (other than desperation)

As some of you may know, I have a regular, red-blooded, all-American job now--as a scientist (Please stop laughing. I'm not making it up and your cruel taunting makes me think you think me stupid. But hey! I know some stuff!), but that does not prevent me from moonlighting in my old profession as world's greastest baby-sitter (as I have done for a good chunk of this week). It's not that I have some intense work ethic, but there are days when I experience intense poverty.*

*Well, intense poverty is relative obviously, for a person who foolishly pays approx. 50% of her salary for rent, by choice. I am most certainly aware that I have made my own bed, but I made it in a really, really great apartment! I am in no way declaring myself to be more unfortunate than those who actually go hungry, etc. I (heart) those peops. I'm a Democrat, after all.

So other than the cash, what are the perks of baby-sitting during what amounts to basically all of my free time? Meg W. and I have discussed previously that the kid food is way excellent: mac and cheese and chicken nuggets anyone? But for dinner....

Perk #1 You seriously get a home-cooked meal; a real square and the best part? It's ready and hot when you get there, if the parents are going out to dinner (which is practically always, now that I am the nights and weekends regular).

Perk #2 Free FUN amusement! Sometimes I get free IMAX. Sometimes free museum or zoo admission. Last night I went to a high school production of Midsummer Night's Dream that was unbelievable! The costumes alone knocked me out. I realize that I went to the Facts of Life School (per S.) and that our theater productions probably reflected a budget of such, but I have never seen such an elaborate high school production. It was better than most college and a fair list of professional companies have done. Word to St. John's School. (The only drawback to seeing a play when you're baby-sitting? The people you have to discuss it with afterwards are in elementary school. But they are cool kids, even so.)

Perk #3 Post-bedtime napping and reading. When the kids have gone to bed and you're still there (which is usually), you can catch up on your reading, study for the GRE, or settle in for a hearty nap on couches much more plush and cozy than I could afford. Though I have lofty (!) opinions of my bed, these couches are right up there with it.

Perk #4 I really love those kids. There were times this summer when, as their nanny, I considered some sort of medication ( a la valium!) to get through the day of screaming before naps, kicks to the stomach, and the sort of sibling rivalry only Monopoly can conjure, but at the end of the day, I realized I shared a very special time with those kids that they'll never have again. I saw it all. We should all be so blessed.

Dear Guy Who Designed my Refrigerator,

Thanks for the 22 slots for eggs.

Because that's sort of like two dozen.

WTF do I do with these 2 extra eggs?

I appreciate your thoughtfulness on this matter.

I've missed you, my darling...

and she fired the gun again!

Dear friends and livers,

It's been an incredibly hectic last few weeks. I am still adjusting to the whole 8-6 routine and it looks like the opportunity at a dream job has come my way, additionally. I wasn't home last weekend and I've been work, work, working late (-r, than 6 that is).

One thing I do pretty frequently in my scant downtime at work is post to Craigslist, (well, that and email the heck out of M! and M2 saying stuff like "I was raised by a cup of coffee.") But anywho, if you know your MaryT, you'll recognize all my posts at CL of late (and there are many). Craigslist, of course, is my current obsession, which I am desperately hoping will catch on in Houston as it has done in many other metropolitan areas. So spread the word, yo.

I will be back on F-R soon, though. And F-R as you once knew it will be back, perhaps a bit wiser this time. :) Not as much love and careful craft goes into my anonymous CL posts and I miss your great comments. I have much to tell you all and much tinkering to do on the web site. I haven't forgotten you and I miss you.

See you soon!

Love,
MaryT

Word *the Fuck* Up, Potty Mouth

I don't know why, but I have been swearing a lot more lately.

I've particularly become fond of Motherfucker, although in my defense, I often refer to it with MF, citing, for example, "an MF hummer."

If you read my last post (and why wouldn't you have, you MF slob? hee.), you probably noticed that I used a lot of swear words. Sorry. Seriously. I was feelin' raw, man.

I swear (ha!), I haven't been such a sailor-mouth since that brief period in high school, when it was "the thing" to do. (Hey, high school is hard, so back the fuck off.)

Still though, it's not like the people at work think I have Tourette's. I can be civilized, of course, but in the off hours, I've really felt like swearing.

I hope this is just a phase, because indeed, I do kiss my mother with this mouth.

P.S. I blame M! partially for encouraging me to use the phrase: "Word to your fucking mother!"

I'll always have a special place for you...in my phone.

Gone are the little black books of yesteryear. Who needs to write numbers on sweaty hands anymore or fumble for a pen? Store it in ye olde Nokia.

I miss paper, :( and yet, when I changed operating systems and I thought I had lost all of my email, I was in a serious funk. All my digital letters--gone. Words more dear to me than diamonds, vanished. I felt like someone had kicked my dog (except not nearly as irate as I would have been if someone had kicked my dog, because then I would have had to pummel somebody's ass).

I was just looking through the phone numbers in my cell phone. It's easy enough to add someone to your phonebook, but removing them is somewhat trickier--not technologically speaking, but mentally. I have E's cell phone and home phone in here. She is in Austria. Her home phone is long since disconnected, but can I erase either of these numbers? Of course I cannot. Not having your best friend in your phone is like not writing your own address in your address book. You HAVE to do it, or you've got no soul, yo. It's not like I don't still know her numbers by heart. This is not the point. I have erased ex-boyfriend's phone numbers from my cell in hopes of purging them from my life once and for all, only to be annoyed later when I am looking for an excuse not to call one of them and I still remember every goddamn digit.

I find, however, that this memory bit is not the case with everyone. Chances are good that because of the cell phone, you have never written this phone number down anywhere. You may have never manually dialed it except when initially saving it, especially if you only use a cell phone as your main phone. You never pounded the number out in a rage or in a panic. You just clicked the down arrow buttons as cool as you please.

I think it's kind of sad when, after you've been dating someone for a solid chunk of time, you can erase his (her) number from your cell phone and suddenly, you're out of touch because you were too much of a lazy bastard to ever bother learning it. Once I mentioned something about my sister (with whom I am extremely close)'s husband to a recent ex (after we had been dating approximately FOREVER), and his response: who is that? It was like one of those commercials for a funny dating show where it was a freeze frame of his face and typing appeared under it that said: Does this man actually *know* your phone number?

A: Not a chance in hell.

But this is the way 21st century (ex) love goes. So they say. (I guess.)

I even have a few numbers in my phone from when my friends were roommates together last year. Each of them has different phone numbers now, which I also have in my phone, but it's like: sorry, the memories have forever etched themselves into the landscape of a computer chip in my cell phone (or my mobile, if you will, M2). For those that would say the digital revolution is anti-sentiment, I ask you: how many of you keep emails you'll probably never read again because of who sent them and how they made you feel?

They may be letters we can never touch or smell, but they're real to us aren't they. And as they ask in The Matrix (before that franchise got shot to all hell with their disco-club Zion--wtf was that?!): what is real?

In conclusion, I bring you two points. Three actually. 1) You need to learn your girlfriend's phone number, Skippy. There's no excuse for that kind of laziness, even if knowing it will haunt you later. 2) The digital revolution is not anti-sentiment, it is just improving most peops' chicken scratch handwriting. 3) In conclusion is simulateously the best and worst way to end any kind of statement. a)best because it's hilarious b) worst because what teacher told you that was okay ever? A: none.

Blog update: I'm absolutely baffled about what is amiss with my code, but I promise F-R will be back to it's normal link-tastic, "psycho" handwriting style in a short a time as possible. Thanks for standing by me, fans. :)

Oh, and also, I have hardly been home at all, but I am keeping good notes of ranty things, so I will be making up for my absence of late muchly, very soon.

And finally: Go Bill White! Yay! I hope you all voted and I hope none of you backed that filthy animal, Orlando Sanchez. Blog on him coming soon!

Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You kill my father. Prepare to die.

STOP SAYING THAT!

In no particular order, stuff people say that makes me batty.
-Preggers ( I just read on My Yahoo! news: Debra Messing Preggers....Grrrrrrr)
-The S word instead of poop, unless it refers to general stuff other than poop.
-Words that are not words: conversate, orientate, irregardless among others...
-hypercorrect (so as to render it: incorrect) grammar, e.g. Call Foo Foo or *myself*, if you have a problem. Just call me, Bub.
-Verbal tic people, you know who you are. I'm looking at you. This could be something as simple as indiscriminately tacking on -ever to when or what, or as advanced as consistently failing to use the past participle. Please know VT (not Vermont) peops, I don't dislike you for your disability, but that in my heart of hearts, I find your offenses extremely grating. And my scale of offenses is like a Richter scale, so in theory, a super irritating (and frequent) verbal tic, could cause California to break off in my mind.

I'm sure I'll have more to add in minutes/days to come, but this will do extremely well for now.

I am fully aware that my site still sucks. I'm working on it, but I've been bizzay. No, for real. So as M! would say: bite my ass.

You know who is underrated as a band?

Air Supply.

I know that if no one else, Meg W. will have my back on this one.

P.S. Blog repairs happening later today! Stay tuned!