Hi, Heidi!

Somewhere, in the womb most likely, something happened to me that made me do inexplicable things. I think I was about five when my mom decided I needed to play with dolls and not trucks. She got me the doll that was all the rage—her name was, “Hi, Heidi.” She had a button on her stomach that you pushed and her arm flew up in the “Hi” position. The commercials were cool—the arm always worked right on the ads as all the little girls sang, “Hiiii, Heidi!” She was quite the girl, and one could purchase many outfits for her if one saw fit. Please note her long, shiny hair—that had to go immediately. I decided to give her a haircut, which would better reflect her inner beauty as I saw it. No, I say, no, she did not now look like a boy, she was now trend setting with her short, jagged-from-dull-scissors style. Grandma was kind enough to fashion clothes for her that included little blue jeans and short sleeve button down shirts. The dress she came with was quickly a memory, buried somewhere in the backyard. Upon seeing her new style, my mom just looked quizzically at me—in this moment, I think she saw what was in store for her as I grew up. I was never again told I had to have a doll.

 

But, all things come full circle—soon, I was putting GI Joe on my birthday wish list. Lo, on birthday morning, Joe arrived. He wasn’t just any Joe, he was Adventure Team GI Joe with “lifelike” hair and beard, he talked, and was jointed, so his legs and arms would bend. Oh, did he ever look dashing. The polar reconnaissance gear was pretty cool too. I bent his knees and slid him into the GI Jeep with a couple of his GI buddies and off he went, racing down Garden Avenue’s steep hill. My little commando team survived the trip, but one was pretty banged up after the tragic, yet inevitable crash. I decided to turn one into “injured” Joe forevermore, and wrapped him in gauze and first aid tape. Adventure Team GI Joe was unscathed, but the more I looked at him, the less I liked that beard. Out came my mom’s razor, you know, the one she used to shave her legs. Off came most of the beard and with it, much of his little plastic face—war is hell! I was nowhere to be found when mom discovered her razor where it had been stealthily hidden.

Toys were lots of fun before they became capitalist tools. ~ Beth Copeland Vargo

Muddy Shoes

It was brought to my attention that some confusion might exist about The Banterist, a blog I read by a well-regarded blogging humorist and list under, “Blogs I Like” and my love of bantering. They share no relationship other than 1) I love the word banter/ing/ist and use it/them whenever I can; and, 2) They are both a lot of fun.

 

One of my friends called me, appalled, saying, “What is this Banterist thing and Nazis?” She seemed outraged; I’m guessing thinking I’d turned into some kind of supremacist or something—I was confused. Then, I realized The Banterist had done a satire of Hitler in his bunker recently. Apparently, that satire eluded her. For the record, Hitler is not funny. Making fun of Hitler is. And, bantering does not make me a Nazi.

I hate muddy shoes. I had an unexpected doctor’s visit with my daughter this morning. Getting her out of school is like getting gold out of Ft. Knox, or getting me to watch a football game, it ain’t happenin’, at least not easily. Post-doctor, I pulled back up to the school to see the entire student population pouring out onto the track field—or as it was now, rain-soaked and trodden on by 1,600 little feet—a veritable giant pit of quicksand. Someone had pulled the alarm again—great, that’s got to mean canceling the school dance again as punishment—so no downtime for mom this week. By the time I found her class, her teacher, the attendance lady, and had daughter deposited properly, my shoes bore no resemblance to the stylish black togs they once were. I looked down in horror at the same moment they were cleared to return to their classrooms. Timing is everything.

Muddy shoes, along with the rest of me back in the car, I frantically whizzed back downtown with 10 minutes left until my very important conference call was to start. I zipped into the parking garage, peeling rubber as the toll arm raised, with two minutes to spare. The garage was full, and there were 10 cars ahead of me who had realized this as well. For the next 20 minutes, I experienced both the “up” and “down” portions of the garage with no luck. I screeched out of the garage, praying for a street spot, which after eight or ninety turns around the block, I got. So, it was a 30-minute spot, it was still a spot. Great. I raced to the elevator (the slowest in town), dried mud falling off with every step. I shoved the elevator door aside on my floor and leapt across the room into my chair with ballerina precision, one dialing finger poised for action. I dialed. No call. The call was canceled because everyone had the same kind of day I had.

Pent Up, You Say

I started three different blogs today and every one of them was griping about customer service—either a call center in India or one of those phone voice response systems, or actual “people” who work in our property manager’s office. All the tirades shared one common thread—most people are trying to do their job, they are just victims of The Peter Principle.

 

Okay, I’m ripping someone off bigtime and though a lot happened today, I just don’t have much to say, but this tickled me:

There are three possible parts to a date, of which at least two must be offered: entertainment, food, and affection. It is customary to begin a series of dates with a great deal of entertainment, a moderate amount of food, and the merest suggestion of affection. As the amount of affection increases, the entertainment can be reduced proportionately. When the affection is the entertainment, we no longer call it dating. Under no circumstances can the food be omitted. ~Miss Manners’ Guide to Excruciatingly Correct Behaviour

I had no idea there was such a formula. I believe I’ve potentially identified what I today mistook for pent up hostility. Since this is a page that my grandmother reads, I’ll say no more.

Too Shy, Shy

I was asked recently if there was a scale for shyness. I had no idea. Seems there actually are several measurements (all very scientific, therefore, pretty boring). One is the McCroskey Shyness Scale . Feel free to take and score at your leisure.

 

I have always described myself to people as shy. It’s no reason for them to laugh. I don’t get what it is—I really am shy. Really. I mean, just today, I was talking to someone about this as a potential blog topic. And their response was, “Shy? Who? You?” I nodded, looking down at my shoes, and said, “Well, yeah.” And the laughter started. Despite the fact that I have been known to talk to complete strangers about just about anything that might cross my neural path at the moment I think it—and for those who know me, those thoughts can be more than a little random, I am shy. Once I was playing a game at the kitchen table with some friends. Somehow, my self-editing internal software failed and I blurted out, “Bolsheviks.” That was a game-stopper, let me tell you. Then I had to explain why it happened, how I was looking into the living room, thinking about the Russian Revolution and how the former well-to-do often ended up sharing a room about the size of the living room in their 20-room mansion with seven other families and how that got me thinking about the movie, Dr. Zhivago¸ and gee, wasn’t Omar Sharif handsome back before he became a bridge-playing old drunk—and I wondered who really directed the assassination of Leon Trotsky and why did they pick red as the color of their flag? Hey, I was waiting for my turn to play, I’m entitled to use that time any way I want.

 

Put me in a party though, with a bunch of people I don’t know, and it’s very likely I will find the darkest corner, the fellow wallflowers, and develop an overwhelming desire to flee. I think that many shy people are generally fairly introspective, and tend to observe human nature more keenly. Standing up against the wall in the corner is a fine opportunity to do both. I think this makes us all interesting people, though we won’t tell you that, for sure, especially not at aforementioned party. I function best in a small group or one-on-one. Obviously not with “one” like my coffee date yesterday though.

So, for all of you fellow shy people out there, don’t be afraid…let people know what’s on your mind…as you think it…you’ll lose your shy rep in short order. But, I promise I won’t laugh next time you tell me you’re shy.

 

Heavens, no. I was shy for several years in my early days in Hollywood until I figured out that no one really gave a damn if I was shy or not, and I got over my shyness.
~ Lucille Ball

Coffee Date

I went to the appointed Starbuck’s as stated in online dating rule #1, showing up two minutes early. I went in to order my Vanilla Bean Frapuccino and waited outside. I didn’t really know what to expect, as people rarely look like their picture. By 10:10, I was fairly certain no one was showing up. I called my friend Viv and lamented my fate. I jumped in the car at 10:15 and drove over to Laure’s to fix her latest computer issue. As I sat down at her computer, the phone rang—it was the coffee date. My date had been sitting since 9:45 at the wrong Starbucks and was miffed with me for my tardiness. Well, now, that is not a good way to start—I had sent a map, the address, and the time. I reluctantly agreed to drive to the other Starbucks.

 

There sat my coffee date, looking the age on the driver’s license, despite the “work.” I don’t know many people who’ve had “work” done. Other than Joan Rivers. My date was very animated and talked non-stop about friends, work, grandchildren, past relationships, and even shared with me the details of the smells of the hazardous materials disposal at the hospital where my date once worked. My date had this weird body tic, jerking and jumping, as the endless chattering continued unabated. I faded in and out of the conversation, numb spot growing in the frontal lobe, watching the passers by, wondering if I’d left the iron on at home, ticking through a checklist of things I needed to get done this afternoon, and picking the dog hair off my sweater. It was freezing and dark inside the Starbucks and I longed for the sunshine I could see a mere 10 feet away. Somehow, if I could just get to the sunlight, maybe I’d be okay. Finally, I said, “If we’re going to continue this conversation, I need to take it to the sun.” We managed a few more minutes of chit -chat and my date blurted out, “Well, seems like I’ve done all the talking. You need to talk now.” I was actually beyond words—I had absolutely no desire to tell my date anything. I muttered a few niceties and moved quickly to my car, waving, just hoping that I could get out of the parking lot before it could be discerned what direction I would be traveling.

 

Why couldn’t I just have been stood up?

 

High expectations are the key to everything. ~ Sam Walton

Report From The Commissioner

First off, let me just say, “What the hell was I thinking?” I placed three ads at three different personal ad locations. A friend recommended I modify my blog post (2/17/06), so I used it as ad copy for the first. My first observation was that the blog spot ad was a far-and-away winner. It was nothing like any other ad posted in “my geographically desirable area.” After about 24 hours posted, the responses started rolling in for the blog spot, or “BS” response. People were smiling, winking, writing, and hollering across the parking lot of potential dating bliss. Ad 2, the Quote Trap, or “QT” response got about four responses—one even told me I was “cute.” That’s still good to hear. Ad 3, the dreaded, usual, mundane, boring ad, or “DUMB” ad, elicited absolutely 0 responses. Matching criteria apparently means only that they live within 50 miles of me and and have a pulse.

 

The second observation came shortly thereafter: Many of these people are single for very good reasons. And, most of them post on all the available sites. So, while you may think your net is cast wide, it’s really stuck in the online version of Friday night at the one bar in town.

 

My favorite undesirable I’ll refer to as “BS1:” After a brief Instant Message session and an email, I suggested coffee. We never got there because within hours of “cyber meeting”, suddenly I had a devoted servant, writing/IMing me more than multiple times offering massages, cooking (jeez, why do these people have to be whacked?), and other passionate promises for which I had no interest. Coffee was canceled. My first stalker. Sigh.

My final observation: I did receive responses from some seemingly nice people. But, not a banterer in the experiment bunch. And, I guess, in my age group, people are pretty sure what they want/don’t want—looks, geography, job, pet or kid status, and suddenly you find the already limited pool has evaporated to just a few droplets of opportunity. Unfortunately, there were none with whom I’m very interested in joining for coffee, except the one I’ll be meeting at 10 am tomorrow at the local Starbucks—the one with four dogs and grandchildren. And, there is this pre-experiment person who continues to banter into my thoughts during the day, albeit in a long distance kind of way.

 

I asked the Magic 8 Ball to give me a sign—should I keep going with this effort? The answer is found above. It wasn’t specific as to when I could come back and ask, and since even the Magic 8 is as ambivalent as I, I think I’ll just hang loose for a while longer.

 

I’ve had lots of dates but I decided to stay home and dye my eyebrows.

~ Andy Warhol

Cheap Plug For My Friend’s Blog

I was talking to the childhood friend who in a “great minds” moment decided at about the same time I did to start blogging and he reminded me that he’s been giving me a plug on his blog once in a while. I mentioned I may need to reciprocate, and he agreed. Chris is a sweetheart, a true liberal, smart, a good dad and husband, kind and very funny–he’s also a Harley Guy which is much in contrast to my image of Harley enthusiasts. So, please take time to check out his blog at http://www.redhogdiary.com

Murphy’s Law: Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.

This particular adage is not one I ascribe to, because even bad situations can be turned around. But, I can’t help believe that some adages, like old wives tales, have some mystical accuracy. However, I believe this law would apply on the days when you think the navy pants you have on are black (because you didn’t bother turning on the closet light) and don an olive green shirt and merrily head to work. No one tells you all day, they just laugh as you walk by. This, of course, has never happened to me.

 

Ducharme’s Precept: Opportunity always knocks at the least opportune moment.

Last night, I waited anxiously for a call to my new HQ Command Central phone. I carried the phone around all evening, but had a momentary lapse and stepped out to the garage to fold towels. I waited the entire evening and no call came. Just prior to going to bed, I flicked the “on” button to find a pulsing tone, which meant I had voicemail–sigh. Two different someones had called in that 87 seconds I was in the garage. Ich habe mich in den Arsch gebissen. Note to self: Get geeky phone belt clip this weekend.

 

Allen’s Law: Almost anything is easier to get into than out of.

Had to go to the bank today to have my name taken off of an account. They wouldn’t do it. Of all crazy things, they said that I could take all the money out and close the account without the other party’s knowledge, but could not voluntary remove my name from the account with or without the other party’s knowledge. We left, flabbergasted.

 

Merkin’s Maxim: When in doubt, predict that the present trend will continue.

My boss and I just had a chat about next year’s budget. He asked where we’d be sitting at next year’s end. Reminded him he needed to pull some revenue figures out of the sky first (well, I said he’d have to pull them out of a specific orifice—I’m such a lady), then told him if he’s very, very good all of next year, he’d may still have a job. I should just tape record it, my answer never changes, but for some reason, he keeps hoping it will.

 

The theory that employees within an organization will advance to their highest level of competence and then be promoted to and remain at a level at which they are incompetent. “The Peter Principle” ~ Laurence Johnston Peter

Travels, Part I

I’ve been around—Texas was the purgatory I kept ending up in—San Angelo twice and San Antonio once. I don’t like Texas. Too many Texans who mix inappropriate things like big trucks, guns, and open cans of alcohol on the road. My dog Burt was a pup and we were playing on the floor when I saw him. He swaggered down the hall like he owned the place with his stylish eye patch, pirate hat, and scarab…this was my first but not my last epic battle with the notorious Scorpion gang. To protect my puppy, I leapt into action and launched a box of detergent at the Scorpion. Fellow gang members decided to retaliate after the very well-attended Scorpion funeral by showing up in the shower with me, intimidating me by crawling on the ceiling over my bed, and joining my foot inside my shoe—somehow, I was never stung. After multiple attacks by fire ants and killing the rattler in the backyard with a shovel (after donning combat boots and BDU pants), I put in for a long tour overseas.

 

I used to live on the top of a mountain in Germany. The green of the grass and the blue of the sky was incredibly vivid this particular summer. I would trek through the woods with my dogs until I reached this big, beautiful, grassy meadow. Then, I’d let the dogs off their leash, and do my Maria von Trapp impression, twirling around singing “Climb Every Mountain,” the dogs yapping at me because obviously, I was crazed. This was a regular routine until the day I saw the German soldiers standing there staring at me. Apparently, they didn’t want to play the rest of the von Trapp kids and join me in song, based on their gape-mouthed expressions, so the dogs and I scurried back into the woods.

 

Rural Ohio had a lot going for it. Close families, solid family values, and only about 10 surnames in a town of 1,200. Interesting folks there, for sure. I bought an old 2-story downtown. It used to be the town doc’s house. I’d find folks out on the sidewalk, just standing there, staring into the large windows. They’d overtake my porch for parades (yes, they had parades, and lots of them). Strangers would use the play area in the backyard as a public park and the driveway parking was the overflow parking for Ziggy’s, the bar across the street. I literally could do nothing without everyone knowing about it. So, I put up a fence. Then the rumor started that I must be from “Cal-i-forn-i-a.” I love the fact that unlike the Amish in Iowa who don’t drive or drink, the Amish guys in this area always seemed to be ahead of me in line at the local convenience store, buying gallons of Wild Turkey and driving cool trucks, saying things like, “Abel, shall thee and thou go do some shots?” I tried to fit in and got accepted into the “Historical Society.” I immediately resigned knowing they’d have me for a member.

 

I’ve left out Massachusetts, Iowa, Missouri, Nebraska, and another part of Germany, as well as temporary duty assignments, but I’ll probably continue to ramble until I get focused back on this blogging project, so hang in there.

 

Americans who travel abroad for the first time are often shocked to discover that, despite all the progress that has been made in the last 30 years, many foreign people still speak in foreign languages. ~ Dave Berry

A Day In The Life Off

I’ve managed to move a pile of papers around three different times today, which remain unfiled, but are now at least sorted. One of those little things I put off in the moving process. Like balancing the checkbook. Since I spend 80% of my day dealing with numbers, budgets, contracts, and other things with $ signs involved, my personal checkbook is about the last thing I want to see on any given day, night, weekend, or holiday. Hopefully, the money will hold out until next payday. I figure some crisis will force me to attend to it—like paying some kind of fee for not paying attention. Fortunately, there was room cleared off on the couch when I fainted after seeing the VISA bill I received today.

 

Having a good laugh or three does a body good. How Zombies and Bimbos got me there is still a mystery. But, it was enjoyable and got me thinking that it wouldn’t be so bad being a Zombie.

 

Caught up with my mom today by phone, despite her “sprained” voice. We talked about all kinds of stuff on my day off today—politics, Oprah Be Thy Name, and her crazy neighbor who travels from property to property while people are “away” and “borrows” things from their houses and yard. Everyone knows she does it, but no one does anything—Mom locks her doors now. And, while bantering with mom, I can kill dust bunnies in the vaulted ceiling, Windex all the light fixtures, clean the bathrooms, and about 100 other things and before I know it, we’ve talked for over an hour and the house is spotless.

 

“No Child Left Behind” has some serious flaws. I’m about to get jiggy with my own version of a peace protest all over the school district offices. Stand by for breaking news, or a call from me for bail money.

 

It would be really nice to get a bottle of 20 year old Port to share with a friend of mine who is now addicted to this particular Nectar of the Gods. The Port Grape Growers Association should hire me as their international ambassador.

 

I have to go back to real life tomorrow and start working full work weeks. Need to plan a getaway that doesn’t involve cleaning, painting, or mowing but does offer room service, ocean waves, and sand between my toes.

 

Personally witnessed vignettes and variations of everyday life wherever it occurred.
~ Dave Berg

Bantering Banterist Banters, Bewitching Fellow Banterist

ban·ter (b n t r)

n.

Good-humored, playful conversation.

v. ban·tered, ban·ter·ing, ban·ters

v.tr.

To speak to in a playful or teasing way.

v.intr.

To exchange mildly teasing remarks.

 

One of the things I love is bantering. Good bantering skills are not given to everyone. Whether it’s bantering with the mail carrier or bantering with my best friend, it’s all fun. Being “in the zone” with someone to be able to banter is often an issue of timing. If I’m thinking about the stack of paperwork on my desk I need to deal with, bantering doesn’t come as easily. But, good bantering can certainly distract me from the paperwork.

I’ve been bantering with someone for a few weeks. Not much is accomplished, but the opportunity to enjoy the back-and-forth, give-and-take of silly mental meanderings is fun. And, fun is something I’ve been lacking for a while.

 

People who banter well in writing do not necessarily banter well verbally. I’ve threatened to banter with the banterist by phone, but I dare not hope that the banterist banters the banter as well in both mediums. I’m almost afraid to break the bantering spell by picking up the phone.

Still don’t know much about my fellow banterist, but am looking forward to learning more. I have a feeling this banterist will be banterific regardless.

 

Furthermore, it is impossible to epitomise banter in a single quote as it is time and place dependent, and like true beauty, true banter is apparent to the beholder.

~Retrieved from “http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Banter“