Anecdotes

Female Mysteries

by Jodie Baker

The other day the men in my office began their usual pointless pondering about one of the great female mysteries. The three women in our small company had closed the wall-length window against the 3 degree wind that rages around our part of the country in April. It’s hard to type when your fingers are numb and your coat sleeves keep getting in the way. This caused the men to return to their tiresome round of:

“Women are always bleating on about how cold they are.”

“Why are they always so cold?”

“You buy them a scarf and they never wear it.”

Why anything we say should affect them I can’t work out as they’ve all got that genetic super-trait of selective hearing working perfectly. Still, I don’t like people to be confused, so I felt I had to explain this little enigma to them. Anyone who has ever wanted to know the answer to this particular temple secret, please read on.

1. Hair - we don’t have any. Oh, we have that obvious ‘crowning glory’ men are always banging on about but most of us wander around with legs, armpits ands groins divested of hair. Hair is a human’s natural coat, designed to help us keep all our internal organs toasty. In a British winter, women are like sad, shaved poodles, all because men heard that touching stubble makes you fancy footballers.

2. Fat - we don’t have any. Fashion magazines tout the skinny image, men get indecently excited by it and suddenly there’s a lot of hungry little mammals wandering around who haven’t stocked up for winter. If bears were as skinny and hairless as us, they’d be extinct. Those who can survive where bears can’t really should not be tagged as the weaker sex.

3. Underwear - I think you can follow the trend. I know, I know, thongs are sexier than thermals, but maybe we could marry the two to create the thermal thong with all around heating pads? No?

So men, stop bitching and bring us some tea, we’re freezing over here.


Jodie Baker is a recently graduated history student who now works, like thousands of other women, in a job which has nothing to do with her degree. She loves to read and write about books, and she currently has a column in Estella’s Revenge entitled ‘Sure, I Know the Queen’. She dreams of working in a creative industry and proving her primary school deputy head teacher wrong about his ideas that “not all children can grow up to be pop stars and footballers; many will have to work in an office…”. To further this dream she sells handmade jewelry at Pretty Little Love Objects and details the joys of the handmade revolution at the shop's companion blog.

Anecdotes

Runaway

by April D. Boland

My mother loves to tell the story of when I ran away from home. No, I wasn't an angst-ridden teen who could no longer take her parents. I was three, and I did not want to take my cough syrup. After numerous attempts at holding me down, only to find that my mouth was clamped shut so tightly that the thick red medicine dribbled down my chin and onto the kitchen floor, my mother - who was only twenty-two years old at the time - decided to use some reverse psychology on me. "April," she said, "Either you take your medicine or you have to move out." I didn't doubt her. I was too young to understand that she was bluffing. Nevertheless, I went into the other room, picked up my most prized possession - a Rainbow Brite doll - and walked to the front door. We lived in an apartment on the third floor of a large house in Brooklyn, and I opened the door and began walking down the stairs. My mother had to come after me and bring me back. She always laughs when she tells the tale, saying, "I still don't know where you were going." I don't remember the incident but she has recalled it for me so many times that I cannot help but wonder the same: Where was I going? Could I possibly have decided at such a young age that I was going to live life on my terms? Was it really that deep, that philosophical, that courageous ... or did I just really, really hate the taste of Children's Tylenol?

April D. Boland is a freelance writer and editor. Originally from New York City, she now resides in Austin, Texas where she enjoys reading, writing, soaking up culture and taking advantage of the beautiful outdoors that she never had back home. She is the founder and editor-in-chief of Della Donna, a webzine for women for which she heartily accepts submissions. Her published work can be found at her website, AprilBoland.com, and she blogs about writing at These Words.

Anecdotes

A Week in the Life of a First Year Teacher

by Tracy Taylor

MONDAY: Slinging Turds

Do teachers really have to put up with this crap?

No pun intended.

Today, while the kids were packing up to leave, Demarcus rushed up to me. "Teacher! Teacher, I have to tell you something. I have to show you something."

With his sticky little hand, he grabbed two of my fingers and led me to a classmate's desk. "Jorge has been slinging turds all over the place!" Demarcus pointed towards the floor.

Slinging turds?

I followed his gaze and, sure enough, there were several Milk-Dud sized brown balls scattered under Jorge's desk.

I stifled the urge to puke and laugh at the same time.

What was I supposed to do? I ignored the feces, thanked Demarcus for his keen observation, and herded my students safely onto the Reading Rug. We began to read a book and the kids appeared to be blissfully ignorant of the stench that was filling up the classroom. Jorge sat in the middle of the group, dreamily sucking on his thumb as he listened to the story. When the dismissal bell rang, I quickly ushered them all out the door and locked it behind them.

I hate to admit it, but I think Gaby stepped on one of the turds.

Isn't that some type of biohazard? I had a classroom full of kids and a pile of poop sitting on the floor. Nothing in the blood-borne pathogens video said anything about human feces!

Why didn't I apply for a quiet... clean... office job?

Welcome to elementary school. Teachers really should get paid more.

TUESDAY: A Higher Standard

The District told us that "teachers are held to a higher standard in society" and that we need to be on our best behavior in public. I'm young and I'm human, but I try to follow The District's advice.

Last Saturday night I met my girlfriend for a drink. Patti is a bit of a pool shark, so we went to a dive bar with a couple billiard tables. Patti was on a roll and kept winning, so we ended up staying late into the night… and early into the morning. I drank my share of cheap bottled beer and enjoyed the atmosphere.

Around 2:00 am, Patti was winning her final game of pool against an arrogant pair of guys who had been talking a lot of trash. I was glad to see that she would beat them and that we would finally get to head home.

When Patti sank the eight ball into a corner pocket to win the game, I did a celebratory dance. I held my beer high in the air and screamed something like, "Wooohooooooo! Whooo! Yeeaaaaaaaa!" I think I spilled a little of my beer onto a man standing behind me, but I did not care. I was partying!

As I screamed and danced, I heard a voice from behind: "Ms. Teacher?"

Teacher.

This stopped me dead in my tracks. Why was someone calling me teacher at 2:00 am in a bar on the wrong side of the river? I turned around to find myself face to face with Mr. Villagomez, one of my student's fathers.

He smiled and shook my hand.

Oh my god! I was so stunned; I didn't even stop to wonder what he was doing in a dive bar in the middle of the night.

To make things worse, Mr. Villagomez was with his uncle and his sister, both of whom also have children enrolled in my school. He introduced me as "Linda's teacher" to each of his family members.

I did my best to smooth down my disheveled hair and pin closed my cleavage-revealing shirt. Mustering up as much teacher grace as one can possess in a bar after midnight, I smiled and told my student's family how nice it was to meet them. Graciously, not one of them acted like the dive bar was a strange place to meet.

WEDNESDAY: Pee on the Seat & Rumors

Someone keeps peeing all over the toilet seat in the faculty bathroom. I know it is Esther, or at least that she is one of the guilty parties, because twice now I have gone to use the restroom right after her. There is no doubt. Esther is in the restroom, I am waiting outside for my turn, she comes out, I go in, and there is pee all over the seat.

It makes me think of the bathrooms they have at Six Flags. It reminds me of the kind of restroom behavior you would expect at a gas station. I just don't understand why Esther, an alleged Southern belle, would treat our faculty bathroom in this way. It is a nice bathroom, with flowers and a little table for magazines. Only a handful of women from our hall use this bathroom. Don't they teach you at charm school that it is extremely rude to pee all over the toilet seat?

I may have only caught Esther twice, but several times I have found the toilet seat covered with pee. It grosses me out. I either try to clean it off myself, or I go to another restroom.

Today I got fed up. Once again, I found the toilet covered in pee. This time, I decided to take action. After visiting an alternate restroom, I went back to my classroom and made a sign.

Ladies, please have some class.
Do not urinate on the toilet seat,
and if you must -
please clean up after yourself!

This sign is now posted on the inside of the bathroom door. I backed it on bright yellow paper and laminated it. The sign hangs at eye-level with anyone seated on the toilet.

***

On another note, I've noticed that I am growing increasingly popular with the student body. Not just my students, but all of the students in the school appear to have taken a special liking to me. They all know my name. "Hi, Teacher! Hey, Teacher!" Kid after kid has been greeting me in the hallway. I figured that word of my niceness had finally caught wind.

Today I learned the true root of my newfound popularity. I was walking down the first grade hallway when I saw two boys fighting over the water fountain. They were hitting and shoving each other, arguing about whom was allowed to get water next. I walked up behind them and let out a simple, "Ahem."

In unison, they turned around and stared wide-eyed at me.

"It's her," one of the boys whispered. They had stopped arguing and were clutching each other, terrified.

First graders take everything way too seriously, so I did my best to not freak them out.

"Boys," I smiled, "You should not fight over the water fountain. Sharing is a very important life skill. You need to take turns drinking water."

"Yes, ma'am," they quickly agreed, but remained frozen in place, staring at me.

"Well, go ahead," I said, motioning toward the water fountain. "One after the other. Get some water."

The boys still didn't move. Their baby eyes barely blinked as they stared at me.

First graders are strange little people.

Perplexed, I stared back.

Finally one of them spoke. "Are you going to tell him?"

"Am I going to tell who?"

"The Undertaker."

"What?" These first graders were starting to creep me out. "What are you talking about?"

One of the boys bravely responded, "We know all about it, Teacher. My brother in fifth grade told us your secret."

My secret?

"What did your brother tell you?"

In hushed voices, the boys told me about a rumor that has been spreading through the school. Apparently a group of fifth grade boys have been telling other students that I grew up next door to a professional wrestler named The Undertaker. He is on a famous wrestling show called SmackDown! and is very popular with the boys in our school.

According to the rumor, I am close friends with my old neighbor, The Undertaker. If I catch any students misbehaving, I report their name to the professional wrestler. The Undertaker then finds this student and "body-slams them until they want to puke their guts out." Students are now terrified to cross me, for fear of the wrath of The Undertaker.

As the first graders recounted the tale, their faces were animated with awe. When they had finished, they asked, "Is it true? Do you know The Undertaker?"

I hesitated for a moment and then became very serious. I looked up and down the hall, to make sure no one was listening. "Yes," I whispered, "It's true."

The boys both gasped.

I looked at them sternly, then said, "Now get some water!"

They jumped and then like little soldiers, the first graders obediently lined up at the water fountain. One after the other they took turns drinking the water.

I laughed the whole way back to my classroom.

THURSDAY: Picture Day

Today was picture day at school. I had completely forgotten about it, but was reminded when I saw that every student in my class had dressed up. The rich kids were squeaky clean; the boys looked like they had used a squeegee to plaster their hair down into two separate parts, and the girls resembled little brides with all the white lace on their dresses. The less fortunate kids had also done their best to dress in style; the boys had tucked their T-shirts into their pants and put on belts, and the girls had worn skirts and done their hair in special styles. There was an air of elegance in the classroom today. The kids did their best to live up to the outfits that they wore.

Our time for pictures was right after lunch, and up until then, the day had run seamlessly. As I herded my students onto the stage and lined them up, I enjoyed watching them primp for the big moment. Picture Guy handed out little combs, the girls smoothed down their skirts and practiced smiling, and the boys tried out their most suave facial expressions. Josh bragged to his classmates about how his cowboy-style shirt had snap buttons, rather than the button-hole kind.

One by one, they went through the line. Smile! Flash! Smile! Flash! An utterly flawless experience, until, of course, Josh sat down on the stool. Picture Guy told Josh to smile. Josh smiled. Picture Guy lifted his hand to snap the photo, and with perfect timing, Josh ripped open his snap-button cowboy shirt. Underneath, he was wearing an extremely inappropriate, adult-content shirt, featuring a picture of a woman leaning over in a very short skirt to reveal a lot more than her long legs and ass-cheeks.

Josh revealed his smut shirt about a fraction of a second before the camera's flash went off. I heard Picture Guy mutter, "Holy shit." Horrified and embarrassed, I ran to Josh and buttoned him up, hoping to cover him before any other students could see what he was wearing. Needless to say, I sent Josh directly to the principal's office. After Picture Guy recovered from shock, he tried to reassure me. "Don't worry, Miss, it's a head shot. Only thing in the picture will be above the shoulders."

After picture time, seven different students came up to me to ask about, "that lady on Josh's T-shirt."

FRIDAY: Response to Sign & A Modest Proposal

The following email was sent to the entire school faculty today. It's from The Intimidator, a nickname I've given to the assistant principal for being such an overbearing bully.

"The sign from the West Hall bathroom was removed by me. If whoever posted it would like to see me about a more appropriate way to handle the situation, please feel free to do so."

When I first read this, I felt embarrassed like a shamed child. I actually considered going to The Intimidator's office to apologize. These feelings quickly vanished. The bottom line is this: There has not been one drop of pee on that toilet seat since I put the sign up a week ago. I'm glad I put it there.

The Intimidator must also be guilty of peeing on the toilet seat.

***

The worst part of my day came right before dismissal. I was reading a story to my students on the Reading Rug when Linda's father, Mr. Villagomez, walked into the room. He motioned for me to speak with him privately, so I asked Hannah, one of the better readers, to continue reading the story.

Oh God, please don't tell my coworkers that you saw me at that bar.

I met Mr. Villagomez by the door, where he greeted me with a big hug. This felt awkward; a parent has never touched me before.

Mr. Villagomez appeared nervous. Confused, I asked him if he had come to pick up Linda.

"No." Mr. Villagomez, who spoke with a thick Mexican accent, shook his head. "Well… yes! Si. Yes, I will take Linda home, but before that…" His voice trailed off and I started to feel a little worried. The man hesitated a minute and then continued, "It was really great to see you at the bar the other night and... I was wondering if I could take you on a date sometime."

A date? God, no!

I unclenched my teeth and forced a smile. "Uh. Ummm. Gosh!" When I'm nervous or uncomfortable I fall into Leave-It-To-Beaver mode and sputter a lot of words like gosh and gee-wiz. "Gee, Mr. Villagomez…"

"Call me Juan." He winked.

Is this guy fucking kidding me?

I could feel my face turning beet red. "Juan, I'm flattered, but…"

"No buts, just say yes. I know how to treat a lady." He winked again.

Gross.

"I have a boyfriend."

Mr. Villagomez smiled arrogantly, "A boyfriend?" Amused, he continued, "You don't need no boyfriend. You need a man that is good to his lady."

I looked Mr. Villagomez up and down. At about 5 feet 5 inches, he stood an inch shorter than me. His dark hair was greased back on the sides and spiked on the top. He was wearing a blue silk shirt and several gold chains around his neck. Clearly this man thought he was suave.

"Look, sir, I am really flattered, but I can't date the parents of my students. It's a school rule," I lied. "I could lose my job."

Mr. Villagomez stepped closer to me. I could feel his breath on my face. He smelled like Doritos and heavy cologne. He put his hand on my shoulder, "No worries. I can be discreet."

I slapped his hand away and stepped back.

Discreet? What am I, some kind of hooker?

I glared at him. "No."

He tried to say something else, but I cut him off, then called Linda over to protect me. "Linda! Time to go. Grab your backpack."

I went to my desk and pretended to be distracted by a stack of papers.

What a stinky creep.

I ignored Mr. Villagomez and his daughter as they left my classroom. That jerk. I hope he got the message.

Thank God it's Friday.


Tracy Taylor is 28 years old and teaches reading at an elementary school in South Carolina. Inspired by the hilarious encounters with her students and the frustrating relationships with her administration, she was prompted to write The Cupcake Laws, a novel accounting for all of her unforgettable experiences as a first year teacher. "A Week in the Life of a Teacher" is an excerpt from The Cupcake Laws. In addition to her novel, she has written a memoir and two children’s books. Tracy can be contacted via e-mail.

Anecdotes

Shrek-ella

by Janna Lutz

I was recently hired by a company that requires me to wear closed-toe shoes. For most people this would not be a problem, but up until now I have been the proud owner of only one pair of shoes. Yes...one pair of shoes. It is okay to be shocked; I am too.

Why is my collection so exclusive and singular in its roster? I could lie and say I am a most unusual and extreme elitist. But really, I have ogre feet (think Shrek people) and comfy shoes are hard to come by. As a matter of fact, I almost abhor shoe shopping. (Somewhere Carrie Bradshaw is weeping.) I have been content in my too-big "Ye Olde Nurse Betty" sandals until the time came to find new shods for my tootsies.

Well, by golly, the time arrived this past weekend, and there I was on Sunday afternoon, trying on shoe after shoe after shoe as my sister assisted in the quest to find my glass slipper. My feet have not seen the inside of a friggin sock in months, let alone pretty Tommy Hilfiger tennis shoes. Yes, she succeeded. They are not really that comfortable, and I have tripped over my feet more than once. I am very much out of my podiatric comfort zone.

It is not a lot of fun to be thrust (sometimes literally, and with socks) into a place or situation that demands immediate change. But there is always a choice... stay in your bubble of complacent comfort with sandals that cause blisters when you walk in them too much because they do not fit properly, OR slip in to new shoes that may feel a little weird at first but are better for the future. Cinderella had it easy.



Janna has been a writer at heart since she first learned how to spell her name. She published her first children's book in 2001 and is currently working on her second. She has also been working as a freelance artist since 2006. Janna is slowly building a reputation as a solid and accomplished writer with a myriad of projects under her belt. She is currently a monthly contributing writer to Femme Vip e-zine and a senior writer for My Online Ghost consulting services. You can find more of her work at her website, Loquacious Rhetoric.

Anecdotes

Tooth Fairy Tales

by Arlena de Bruin

Apparently I should be fired as the Tooth Fairy.

Hang up the iridescent wings. Put away the fairy dust. Let me introduce myself as a mother facing dishonorable discharge for jeopardizing a boy’s belief in innocence and magic. I forgot to be the Tooth Fairy.

It wasn’t that I intended to crash on the couch and crawl to bed without a thought for my ethereal obligations. I mean, really, would you choose to wake up to an eight-year-old boy by your bed, bottom lip protruding, sandwich-bagged tooth clutched pitifully in hand?

“Mommy, how come the tooth fairy forgot me?”

My heart stops. Never mind the countless exercises in building and fortifying our child’s self esteem. Never mind endless years of positive reinforcement, constructive feedback, and conscious role-modeling. How do I explain to our son that not only is Santa not real (which is not my fault, by the way…thank the neighbor boy!) but that the Tooth Fairy is also a hoax? How do I live with the guilt?

I shake my sleepy head and groan. Of the twins, Eden’s the more critical thinker. He can blast a hole through a story like a cannon through a window pane. One false detail and my hypothesis is shattered.

“Well…” I clear my throat. “I bet you the Tooth Fairy had so many children to visit last night that she ran out of time. I’m sure she’s feeling wretched this morning. With government cutbacks and a shrinking tooth economy, she’s obviously seriously overworked.”

The bottom lip protrudes farther. He’s not buying the political Tooth Fairy conundrum. Perhaps I should follow with a dissertation on the importance of forming a cohesive Tooth Fairy union.

“But why’d she forget me?”

“Don’t worry honey,” I say, my heart breaking. “I’m sure she’ll be here tomorrow. And lucky for you, that tooth is making you interest.”

“You mean tomorrow I’ll get even more money?” The bottom lip transforms into a smile.

“Ah, ya… that’s it. She probably skipped you because she knew you’d appreciate the extra cash.”

Eden disappears down the hall to inform his brother that he’ll be the richer and I sigh. Fortunately, I’ve been saved by my son’s obsession with increasing capital.

So when did being the Tooth Fairy become so complicated?

It’s not like we haven’t had fairy issues before. There was a time when Indi insisted we put his tooth in a cup of water so he could tell what color his fairy was. Indi went to bed praying his fairy was red. Considering the stain factor, I decided his fairy was yellow. Lucky for me I now have only yellow carpet to contend with.

Then there’s cross-talk between kids. I mean, Moms and Dads, can we not be consistent? What do you do when one child gets five dollars for her first tooth? Or as we experienced last week when we joined friends camping, what do you do when the smallest denomination of currency in the campground is a ten dollar bill? Every kid in Princess Campground now believes the Camping Fairy is ‘the bomb’ and my son spent the next three days with a crowbar in his mouth just to capitalize on a greater return for his baby tooth investment.

Not to mention those unanswered questions like, “If I was to ‘accidentally’ hit another boy in the mouth and steal his tooth and put it under my pillow, would the Tooth Fairy still give me money?”

It’s enough to make my head spin. And to think this is happening all over. According to the latest census, there are approximately three million children in Canada of tooth-losing age. With twenty primary teeth to lose, that’s 60-million visits from the Tooth Fairy. Multiply that by two dollars a tooth, and that’s $120-million in baby teeth expenditures!

Personally I think there should be a 1-800 crisis line just to support us poor Tooth Fairy impersonators. Not to mention a wake-up service to spare those of us wretchedly forgetful souls. In a time when childhood innocence is overshadowed by bikini-clad singing icons and violent video games, I’d like to stretch this one magical moment out. So in the name of consistency, and for those of you faced with a forgotten Tooth Fairy visit, I offer you this: Buckle down and buck up because Tooth Fairy interest pays a loonie per night.

Arlena de Bruin is a published humor columnist, freelance writer and novelist who has the ability to find laughter in even the most mundane of life experiences. She lives in BC, Canada with her husband, her seventeen-year-old stepdaughter and twin nine-year-old sons. (If you don’t think that’s a recipe for therapy, then you haven’t lived in a house with three boys and a teenager!) Arlena’s philosophy: life is comedy in motion… there’s never a disaster you can’t find humor in! Her column has appeared in newspapers, magazines and on the Web. She is presently looking for a publisher for her first novel, From Indigo to Eden. For more of Arlena’s anecdotes, please visit her columns, "On the Bright Side" at www.castanet.net and "Relationships" at www.ilovekelowna.com.

Anecdotes

Icky and the Philadelphia Philly

by Rob Biller

More than a score of years ago, when I was a struggling graduate student in Philadelphia existing mainly on pot pies and chicken gizzards, I spent the latter part of a St. Valentine’s Day in paradise.

The day began inauspiciously: Because I didn’t have a toaster in my two-room apartment, I always placed several slices of bread under the glowing broiler in my dilapidated oven for eventual consumption. Shortly after I closed the creaking door, a pattering sound began inside that rapidly increased in intensity and volume. With curious trepidation, I opened the door and a minimally broiled mouse flew out. Startled but still famished, I finished browning the nibbled bread and wolfed it down with a few swigs of flat beer.

Later that morning, I was paged to the Radiology Department. Anxiously waiting to intercept me at the department entrance was Dr. Lawler who quickly explained that his niece, Ruth, needed an escort for a St. Valentine’s Day dance that night. I diplomatically declined his request, explaining that I didn’t own a suit or even a decent shirt.

“You’ll need a tuxedo for this dance,” said Doc Lawler. Great, I thought, I’m off the hook. “That’s why I’m asking you to take her. Her brother owns a tux he’d be happy to lend you, and he’s about your height and build,” said Lawler. Sensing that any further maneuvering would be fruitless, I agreed.

I was going on a blind date with a girl whose brother was built like a mountain gorilla with a beer belly. I could only hope she was adopted.

At 5 p.m., Doc Lawler picked me up (I didn’t own a car) and, during the trip from Allegheny Avenue to Chestnut Hill, brought me up to speed on Ruth and her dating dilemma.

Ruth was a senior at Penn—an English major. She and some of her classmates decided to host a lavish St. Valentine’s Day party because in a few months they would graduate and go their separate ways. Ruth’s original date called the night before and cancelled. Since it was a “couples only” event and some of her friends had beaten the usual bushes flat for escorts, she asked her uncle to supply an appropriate candidate from the single men he knew at Temple. Apparently, last minute pickings at Penn were slim.

Ruth’s house was a palatial Tudor that resembled the homes cat burglars rob in movies.

Her father, a judge and Clifton Webb clone, graciously extended his hand and then directed me to a bedroom where I changed into the slightly snug tuxedo.

When I returned to the entrance foyer, one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen, dressed in an exquisite pink gown, awaited me—she was way, way, way out of my league! Her father handed me the keys to a black Cadillac and said, “You’ll have to drive, Ruth can’t, she’s wearing a gown.”

We chatted amicably during the short trip up Germantown Pike to Whitemarsh Valley Country Club. She seemed to like me. Maybe Mom was right when she claimed I was handsome, charming, and quite a catch.

The party room was both comfortable and commodious, with a large sculptured ice heart in its center. Ruth and I were seated at a table with three other couples.

My uncle, who had attended Julliard, once told me that if a person wanted to appear intelligent and articulate he should smile sincerely, speak infrequently, and appear mesmerized by all conversations. I followed his advice.

Because I was a gourmand surround by gourmets and butchered French pronunciations, immediately after Ruth made her selections I would say, “That sounds delicious, I’ll have the same.” That evening was the first time I tasted Crème Brulee—it was a revelation.

Most of that night is now a blur, but I still remember getting a laugh when a surly fellow at our table, who was a teacher at Wharton Business School, said, “I understand that hunting is the main pastime of most Western Pennsylvanians. Did you shoot and eat your Thanksgiving turkey?”

“ Heck no,” I responded. “We’s afraid if we goes too far into the woods we might fall off the edge of the earth.” I remember thinking that if this pedant and I were left in the middle of a jungle I would kill him, eat him, walk out of the jungle and write a bestseller about the ordeal—sans murder and cannibalism.

After the Lucullan feasting and slow dancing ended, I drove Ruth home and we changed into our street clothes. Ruth took me back to Allegheny Avenue in her red Volvo. We gabbed continuously, and I swear it seemed it only took her a few seconds to cover the 15 or so miles to my hovel.

Just before I exited the vehicle, I leaned toward Ruth to say thanks and shake her hand, but before I could execute this pleasantry, she extracted a hairbrush from her purse, wrestled some strands of hair away from it, twisted them into a tiny cord and started to floss her teeth while mumbling, “ I’ve got a piece of food stuck between my molars and if I don’t get it out I’m going to go insane.” She quickly added, “Good-bye.”

Dumbfounded, I got out of her car and waved as she sped away.

Epilogue

Years later, at a seminar, I ran into Dr. Lawler; eventually I asked about Ruth. Doc never mentioned the date while I was a student and neither did I, except to say I had a good time. Doc broke into a big grin, and after some prodding, gave me insight into the incident.

Ruth, at most family gatherings, loves to tell how she saved herself from being smooched by an “icky” Temple student after her St. Valentine’s Day dance. Apparently, she was terrified I might try to reach first base and thwarted the masher through quick thinking.

Initially, I was shattered by this revelation, but after my damaged ego recovered, I realized she had indeed used a ploy that was brilliant and effective; I must grudgingly admit the incident is great fodder for a raconteur.

My only solace comes from the famous F. Scott Fitzgerald quote: “Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me.”

Rob Biller is a laconic everyman – in the medieval sense.

Anecdotes

The Bridesmaids' Dresses

by Laura Yeager

I had chosen three lovely women to be in my bridal party. There was Linda, who was a lifelong friend. She had married at 18 and knew a lot about staying married. A gifted artist, she was coming up from Virginia to be in my wedding. Then there was Monica, a woman I knew from teaching writing in Pennsylvania. Monica was a poet and a lesbian who hadn't yet met her life partner. Finally, there was Jan, my best friend, who was also single and lived in Florida. Jan was a periodontist and the closest thing I had to a sister.

I hadn't chosen my bridal colors when I went to look at bridesmaid's dresses. I just wanted to see what was out there. I knew I needed three and that I was going to buy the dresses and mail them to my bridesmaids. The dresses would be my gift to them.

One day about three months before the wedding, I was driving around when I saw a bridal store. "Bridal Party," it was called. Being relatively low on cash, I decided to go in.

The store was packed with dresses. Purple, blue, pink, yellow, peach, green—all the colors of the rainbow. The wedding dresses hung on the far wall, blooming flowers of white.

A woman approached me. She wore jeans and was smoking a cigarette. "Can I help you?" she asked.

I saw a sign. "ALL BRIDESMAID'S DRESSES—$30.00."

Boy, had I got lucky. I wondered why they were so cheap.

Then, I heard something. A tweet tweet. It sounded like a bird. I looked up. There were several birds sitting on the rafters.

"I need some bridesmaid's dresses," I said.

Suddenly, three of the birds took off and flew to the other side of the store.

"We've got a lot of bridesmaid's dresses. Any particular color?"

The woman acted as if the birds weren't there.

"I haven't chosen my colors yet," I said.

"Well, they're all on sale. $30.00 each. We've got a lot of styles, sizes and colors. Why don't you look around?"

The birds started to make a lot of noise. The tweeting was incredible. I looked up again.

"I see you've noticed our guests," the woman said, taking a drag off the cigarette.

"Yes," I said.

"They came in through the chimney."

I looked at the dresses. She had a marvelous selection. There were slinky dresses, tea-length dresses, frilly dresses, strapless... I kind of liked the tea-length. My wedding was going to be rather informal. I was wearing a plain, short-sleeved dress with no train.

"Are you going to have them exterminated?" I asked, touching the fabric of a silky, blue dress.

"He's coming at 5:00 today."

Then, I noticed it. Bird poop. There was bird poop on the blue bridesmaid's dress—a long, white streak of poop dotted with black.

"You have to be careful because some of the dresses have bird doodoo on them."

I couldn't do anything but laugh. Then I felt awkward for chuckling at her predicament. "I'm sorry," I said.

"Hey, that's O.K. It is funny. Are you finding anything?"

"I like the tea-length."

"There are some pretty, peach tea-length ones right here." She showed me the peach dresses.

I liked them. They had three quarter-length puffy sleeves and deep V-necklines.

"These are beautiful," I said.

"Aren't they? Now, the trick is," she said as she rooted through the different sized peach dresses, "to find a group of them that don't have poop on them."

I held my breath. There was a size 5 for Jan, a 12 for Linda and a 10 for Jessica. She had all the sizes; now, did any of the dresses have doodoo on them?

We took them up to the counter in front of the store. I inspected each dress carefully. If there was the slightest bit of shit on any of them, I'd have to pick another style.

I got lucky. There was no crap on any of the dresses. I smiled.

Just then, some bird poop dropped from the sky. It landed on a puffy, beige dress.

"I'm sorry," the woman said. "Would you like an umbrella?"

"No, thank you," I said, wondering if she was serious.

The birds tweeted in unison.

"Well, my misfortune is your fortune," she said, ringing me up.

"I didn't have much money for these. I'm so glad I found you."

She put each dress on a hanger and bagged it in a white, plastic bag. Thank goodness they were finally covered.

"Spread the word. I've got to move all this merchandise and start over."

"I will," I said.

Birds flew back and forth and then landed on the rafters.

"Are they going to kill the birds?" I asked.

"No, they say they can capture them. I don't want them dead. I just want them out. They're ruining me." The woman lit up another cigarette.

"Well, thank you," I said. "I really like the dresses."

"Have a beautiful wedding," she said.

I carried the dresses to the door and let myself out.

I would have a beautiful wedding. My brother would sing. The bouquets would be stunning. The readings would be read perfectly and loudly. All the guests would show up. The food at
the reception would be delicious. Steve, my husband, wouldn't shove the cake in my face. The dresses would fit Linda, Jessica and Jan.

You can bet I didn't tell them about the bird poop. That was my little secret.

Tweet. Tweet.

The trick to life is to not be too choosey.

Especially on a budget.

Laura Yeager is a writer, teacher, mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend, who lives in Akron, OH. You can find more of her work at her blog, Bipolar Literature.

Anecdotes: the Bad Date Edition

Shalena:

"I would have to say the worst date I've ever had was with this guy... I forgot his name, but I remember nicknaming him 'firecrotch.'


I was doing the online dating thing simply because I wanted to meet a new breed of men. I met this one online, and our first date started off great. We went out for some dessert and talked a bit about our past relationships. After conversing for about three hours we decided to get dinner. It was rainy out, but we trekked there anyway. We sat down to have some hot wings and fries, and that's when I found out he was crazy. He started talking about his unprotected sex stints, a young woman he dated that cried after she undressed herself, and all night coke binges. Why did I agree to let him drive me home? I'm stupid and it was raining pretty hard. It was either a drive home with the guy I will never talk to again or a 45 minute train ride then another twenty minutes on the bus.


Unfortunately, his car was parked at his house. We walked for twenty minutes in the pouring rain, and once at his house I demanded I keep my jacket on and that we leave immediately. He wanted to me to see his new place, and I said he only had 3 minutes because I know what "a tour of the house" means. We started in the living room and I was impressed by his projection screen HD televison tuned to the Discovery Channel, and his pet ferrets. He slowly tried to lead me to the back of his apartment. Once in the hallway he opens his bedroom door and asked me if I wanted a tour of that all the while doing some creepy tongue gesture. I strongly declined, and we were out.


It didn't end there. After 30 minutes of driving, and hearing him talk about alleyways and how it would be great to pull into one, we finally arrived at my apartment... so I thought. He parked a block away and jumped on me, forcing his tongue into my mouth in a darting reptile motion. After I pushed him off and cursed him out for being disgusting, I hopped out of the car and walked home. As soon as I stepped into my apartment I got a text from him saying, "I really enjoyed this evening, let's meet again for coffee."



Cindi:


"When I was seventeen, there was this one boy who asked me out to go to the movies with him. I remember my mom and dad had met him once, somewhere, and thought of him as a nice and quiet boy.


"You ought to go with him," my mother said to me as she was mashing potatoes for dinner. "He seems so nice and you need to do something other than work."


She was right. At the ripe old age of seventeen, I was an attractive but boring teenager, not the usual party hopper or boy crazy girl that many associate with teenage girls. No... I was a serious high school graduate who discovered early on the beauty of making money by working. (We came from a lower middle class family with a father who ruled the wallet. No funny business went on with money; it wasn't purchased if it wasn't needed.)


So, I went against my own judgment and said yes, even though he wasn't my type: short, quiet and serious. His redeeming quality was that he was intelligent, which I value very much. I got ready for the date (though without much effort), putting on my jeans and a nice (but not too nice) casual top.


"Do you have money?" my mom asked, eyeing me curiously as I looked at my reflection in the mirror. "Mom!" I moaned as I fiddled with my eye make-up. "He is paying, not me." "Doesn't matter," she muttered as she searched through her purse. She stuck a ten dollar bill in my hand. "This is just in case you need it--mad money. Never go on a date without some mad money in your pocket. You never know if you need cab fare to get home..."


Made sense. So, I waited in the living room thinking of how I could be back at the mall at my job in the record store listening to my wonderful records and making money instead of waiting in my living room for the date who was nice, but not my type, to pick me up.


Not long after that, Bob arrived, and soon we were in his car headed for the movies. He had decided on a drive-in movie. And as luck would have it, there was a drive-in theater just five minutes away from my parents' house.


Soon we were set up and ready to watch the movie. I noticed as he was fidgeting with the stereo that the car had bucket seats in the front. Sport seats, separated by a stick shift. Great! No funny business, I thought. Too much hassle, and I wasn't in the mood to fight off this guy tonight. Just then I noticed a thermos on the floor on the car.


"You brought a thermos of coffee?" I asked. He smiled and said, "No, I brought this for you... I thought you might like it." I sat in disbelief as he twisted open the thermos bottle and poured me a lid full of pink fluid. "What the hell is that?" I asked while observing that it looked an awful lot like pepto-bismol.


"Pink squirrels!" he stated proudly as he handed me a lidful. "You might like it!" (For those of you who don't know, a pink squirrel is a mixed drink. I have no idea what it is made of, but will make you drunk--fast!)


"Well, what are you going to drink?" I asked him as I looked down at the lid filled with pink. "Oh, I am just going to go get a Coke. I don't feel like having anything to drink other than that." He said this as he placed his hand high on my thigh.


It was right then and there I knew what to do. "Oh. Okay. You go get your coke and I will wait for you to come back to get started." Bob, totally pleased that his plan to get me drunk was working so easily, hopped out of the car and headed to the concession stand. I waited till he was out of my sight, then I set the cup on the floor of the car, got my purse, and high tailed it out of there. As I walked, I planned my route effectively, since I didnt want him to find me.


I was lucky that my house was only a twenty minute walk away. I cut through back streets and walked quickly. I imagined that horny Bob would come back to the car and think I went to the bathroom. I wondered how long he would sit there before he figured out that something was wrong. Jerk!


I got home, walked in the door and my mom was shocked to see me. I handed her back her ten and told her that she was correct about the mad money, but there were no phones where I had been. After that, I never let my parents help decide who I should go out with, ever again."


Denise:

"I was 18 years old, out of high school, and working part time at an Indoor Flea Market. I was just coming out of a bad break up with my boyfriend of five yrs. My girlfriend, whose name now escapes me, was a bar maid for a local bar. She invited me to come and hang out with her while she worked. She said she wanted to introduce me to a guy that hangs out there, who was really nice. I thought, Why not, what do I have to lose? Although I was still very depressed and broken hearted over losing my boyfriend.

I headed over to the bar and my girlfriend introduced me to this really nice guy named Benny. We talked, we laughed, we even danced to songs playing on the juke box.

Since my girfriend was the barmaid, she was giving me drinks on the house, so after a few hours, I must have had at least six beers. I was only five feet tall and 95 pounds, so this was enough to intoxicate the heck out of me. But that wasn't the problem.


Soon it was closing time and my girlfriend said, "Okay, one last drink on the house, whatever you want." I decided I wanted my favorite drink in the whole world, a White Russian, not realizing that the milk in it does not mix well with beer.


I sipped it down with such delight, enjoying every drop. All of a sudden, I stood up, and the walls started spinning. Then my stomach started turning. I went into the ladies' room and was so dizzy and nauseous that I sat in the corner of the bathroom and cried.


I remember hearing Benny knocking at the door to see if I was okay. I was too embarrassed to let him know that not only can I not handle my liquor, but I don't even know what drinks cannot be mixed. It didn't matter that I was sick as a dog and in dire need of help; I didn't want to look bad.


Finally, I managed to stand up and get a grip. I exited the bathroom and Benny offered to drive me home. I remember that ride home, the entire time thinking, I'm gonna throw up all over his car. I kept apologizing for getting sick on our first date. He was so nice, and so sweet; he was only concerned that I didn't feel good.


Well, the 20 minute car ride felt like a lifetime as I tried my best to keep my stomach from erupting. We arrived at my house and Benny gently grabbed my hand and kissed it. He offered to walk me to the door, but I said, "No, thanks." As soon as I got out of his car and he pulled away, I thought, Wow, what a wonderful guy... and then I threw up."



Christi:


"I was at my boyfriend's house on our one-month anniversary and he was acting weird, even though we hadn't had a fight or anything. He wasn't talking to me, and I asked, "Are we still going to the movies?" and he was like, "I guess... whatever." I kept asking him what was the matter and he said, "Nothing."


On our way to the movies, we had to stop at his mother's job so he could ask her for money. He asked, "Mom, can I have $5.50?" which made it clear I was on my own for a ticket. When we got to the movies, he gave me the money and told me to buy his ticket while he went into the comic book store next door. I bought his and my own and then went to get him out of the store.


When we entered the theater, he sat two or three seats away from me. Throughout the entire movie, he didn't even look in my direction. He didn't say one word to me. He wouldn't even laugh at the funny parts of the movie, just sat there looking angry.


When the movie was over, he got up and started walking out without me. I followed him and when we got to the bus stop, he faced away from me with his arms crossed, not saying a word. After a few minutes, he just left.


When I got home, I called him and said we shouldn't see each other anymore, and he started crying."



Sarafina:


"I don’t even remember where we met, but he was a fireman and thinking about how hot firemen are when wearing those pants and suspenders, I agreed to go out with him. Prior to the date, he told me that we were going to go to a really nice restaurant, so I put on my best. On the way to the restaurant, we pulled into a shopping center, and at first I thought he was going to buy a stick of gum or something. He parked the car and said, “We’re here.” His idea of a fancy restaurant was the Sizzler, all-you-can-eat. I ordered something from the board behind the cashier and declined the salad bar; I am not a fan of eating food that was sneezed on and touched by strangers. He, on the other hand, was a great fan of the salad bar experience. He filled his plate with anything and everything that was there. I think at one point he was chewing on a napkin that someone had left next to the chick peas. There was no conversation; he was totally concentrating on his food. Each time he put something in his mouth he would make this "ahem" noise, which sounded as if he had a dry throat and had swallowed some flies. I am an animal lover, but if I heard that noise come out of dog, I would have him put down.


The only conversation that took place was when he took a breather long enough to ask why I was not eating. I made up some excuse about not liking how my food came out and he flew off on how expensive my meal was. I offered to give him the $9.95 which included the meal, dessert and drink, but he told me that he was a gentleman and it would not be right for him to take it. He then turned his attention back to the grub on his plate and snorted it down. He finished eating, flicked his tongue out cleaning off every single speck of food particles left on and around his mouth, and we headed out of the restaurant. I told him that it was getting late and asked to be taken home. He asked if it would be alright if he picked up something from his apartment. I didn’t think anything of it so I agreed. When we got there, all he had in the living room was a chair and a folding snack tray. He went into the other room and then called me in, saying that he wanted to show me something. In the room was a king-size mattress sitting in a brass frame (well, he called it brass, but it looked more like tin that was painted). He was lying across the mattress and he told me that he got the bed in his divorce settlement. He also asked me to sit on the bed to see how it feels.

I told him that he should have gotten the living room set and asked to be taken home."



April:


"Another date gone wrong, although it wasn't supposed to be a date. It was supposed to be a meeting of the minds, one avid reader hanging out with another, discussing literature over Sunday tea.


I met D., a tall, slightly awkward Chinese man in his early twenties who towered over me, at a Japanese restaurant. We were supposed to have tea and get to know each other as friends because we supposedly shared similar interests. We met outside on the street and then he opened the door and went in ahead of me. This is fine; I am a feminist and do not need to walk in first. My problem was more with the fact that he did not even hold the door out behind him, as normal, decent people would for a stranger, and it nearly hit me as I scrambled inside.


Tea turned into lunch because we were both hungry. He tried to teach me to use the chopsticks but I failed miserably and had to ask for a fork, shame-faced. He grew up in Alaska so I was very interested to hear about his life. At one point he mentioned the kind of food he grew up eating and then he asked me, "What did you grow up on? Fast food?" I couldn't tell if this was a crack about my weight or about Americans in general.


The conversation started getting slightly weird. Firstly, he randomly said something about no one being perfect, and then he said, "Except maybe you." I don't really want someone I've known for ten minutes to call me perfect, it's creepy. Then we were talking about how I had just learned to drive and he looked me in the face and asked, in all seriousness, "Have you ever run over a cat?"


By the end of lunch he had invited me to his apartment which, conveniently enough, was right across the street. He also lunged at me, tongue flailing, until I ran away in terror."

Anecdotes

Just Because It's 'Complimentary' Doesn't Mean It's Free

by Rebecca Yarowsky

D and I were standing at the Clarins counter in Nordstrom’s. Her friend, Susan, worked for Clarins. I liked Susan. I liked Susan because she was different from most women who sell cosmetics. She wasn’t a college sophomore. She was in her fifties. She wasn’t anorexic. She was overweight. And she didn’t wear every available item she sold on her face. She was made-up, but you could still discern her features under the stuff. She also liked to joke about things like menopause, her job and the travails of middle age. I felt right at home.

“We’re going to have a skin-care specialist in the store tomorrow,” she said. “She’ll be giving facials. You girls want to sign up?”

D looked at me, “Yeah. Sign us up.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I’m not sure yet. I have to think about it.” I was weighing the pros and cons. It wasn’t the facial itself that made me nervous. It was the fact that, after the facial, I’d have to walk out of Nordstrom’s completely as-is. Without any make-up at all. I wasn’t thinking about myself. I was considering the public. I wasn’t sure they could handle that situation.

“Oh, come on,” said D, who rarely wears make-up and looks beautiful (despite the fact). “Look, Bec. Here’s the best part about it.” She pointed to the word “complimentary” on the flier we’d been given.

“All right,” I sighed.

“Great!” Susan put our names down for back-to-back appointments the following afternoon. “See you tomorrow, ladies!”

The next day, D and I planned our strategy before we entered the department store.

“This sort of thing is never ‘free.’ We’ll have to buy something,” D whispered, looking over her shoulder, as we loitered outside Nordstrom’s.

“Okay,” I whispered back. “Let’s make it some token item then. Something cheap.”

“Right. I’ll buy a manicure brush,” D decided.

“And I’ll get their concealer. That shouldn’t set us back much.”

I had faith in D. She had proven herself to be a Titan when it came to getting the most bang for her buck in the area of skincare and cosmetics. I'd seen her in action.

Lancome once offered a quilted pouch, filled with $50 worth of lipstick, eye shadows and creams, for free when you made a $20 purchase. After the young woman rang up D’s selections, the total came to $18.85. “I’m afraid you haven’t spent enough to qualify for our give-away,” she said, casting her glance at the shelves of moisturizers, age-defying emulsions and better-than-Botox serums.

D paused, momentarily confounded. “Let me see . . .”

“Lancome offers a terrific line of dermatologically-approved skincare products for the woman over 40,” the sales clerk suggested.

“Do you have a pencil sharpener?” asked D.

“A what?”

“A pencil sharpener. You know, for eyeliner.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Uh, sure. Yeah. We have those.”

“How much are they?”

“They’re $1.50. But...”

“Okay. I’ll take one. Just put it in the bag with my free gift and the other things,” smiled D.

As we took the escalator down to the Nordstrom's cosmetic department, I told myself that D and I were going to be fine. I just knew it.

A white folding screen had been set up in the Clarins section of the store. Behind the screen was a chair that looked like the kind of chair you sit in at the dentist’s and a rolling cart filled with a variety of lotions and creams.

“Hello, girls,” said Susan. “Who wants to go first?”

“You go, D, I’ll watch.” I hopped up on a high, cushioned stool nearby and made myself comfortable.

The “facialist” was a sweet and earnest dark-haired young woman, whose classic beauty reminded me of those movie stars from an era when classic beauty was the norm. She knew what she was doing. I could tell.

As she proceeded with the facial, she described the skin, its properties and the products she used in scientific and compelling terms.

“Bec,” called D, as she reclined in the chair, wearing a headband to keep the hair off her face, “This is SO relaxing. You’re going to love it.”

“Yes,” the young woman agreed, “it really gets rid of all that stress we build up during the course of a day. Now, when you apply this neck cream, you need to use a downward motion, going from the tip of the chin to the top of your breasts . . .”

“Really?” asked D. “I thought you were supposed to use upward strokes. To counteract gravity, the toll the years have taken, that sort of thing.”

“No, no, no. The circulation is stimulated by the motion of your hands toward the heart.”

“Wow. I’ll have to remember that. Does this method of application apply only to the neck cream?” D impressed me. She was even phonier than I’d given her credit for. I began to think that she’d missed her true calling by not going into the theater.

When the facial ended, D continued to recline. “My God, I feel wonderful! I don’t want to get up.”

“Well, you have to get up,” I said, a little peevishly. “It’s my turn.” I was now looking forward to a half-hour of bliss, even if I emerged bald-faced.

The woman slipped the headband over my bangs and began by massaging my temples. “My, you don’t have any visible pores,” she said. “You’re lucky.”

Soon I was experiencing the Nirvana that comes only when a you allow a total stranger complete tactile control over your head and neck. I felt as if I were one with the universe or, at the very least, the dentist's chair.

“You’re done!” a voice said. “Here’s a hand mirror. Take a look.”

“I don't need the mirror. . . I’m fine. I feel great. Thanks.”

“Oh, just a peek.”

I looked in the mirror. Apart from the fact that my bangs were now standing on end, I did look better. I was rosy. I was glowing.

Susan had arranged the products on the glass counter.

“How much is this?” I asked.

“The Line-Away? That’s $27.50. It virtually eliminates all your wrinkles and lasts for hours.” Susan smoothed some on my palm. My lifeline immediately disappeared.

“I’ll take some,” I said.

“You should get the neck cream, too,” advised D. “I did.”

I waited while Susan totaled my purchases. For some reason, it was taking longer than I’d expected. I looked around for D. She was peering out from behind one of the plaster Greek columns that lined the cosmetic department aisle.

“That will be $186.97. Will you be using your Nordstrom’s card or a credit card?”

“Oh. Oh no. I mean, um, my credit card,” I gave Susan, whose new merchant persona struck me as perfunctory and unfriendly, my Visa.

“I’ve put some free samples in the bag with your things.”

“Oh,” I said again.

As D and I walked away, I whispered, “I spent nearly $200.”

“Yeah,” confessed D. “So did I. Do you want to go somewhere and get lunch? My treat.”

“I think I want to walk around for a while. I’m still in shock.”

“Do you think they get you that relaxed on purpose?” D looked as if she’d just woken up.

“I don’t know. What I DO know is that I’ll never trust the word ‘complimentary’ again in my life.”

“Me either,” agreed D. “Hey, she said you didn’t have any pores. I can see a few.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Rebecca is a freelance writer, graphic designer and photographer living in Virginia. When not engaged in her professional activities, she spends her time running in the local park and protesting the Bush administration in Washington, DC. You can read more of her writings at her Newsvine column.

Anecdotes

Out of the Mouths of Babes

by Ms. K.

As my class sat quietly doing their work, I watched one student from afar daze off without a care in the world, books and papers scattered about. When I approached him, I asked him what he was doing. No response. I looked at his round belly and his cute cheeks drooping down as he frowned, knowing he was in trouble. "Nicky, what are you doing?" I asked. No response.

"Are you doing what you're supposed to be doing?"
"No." Bigger frown.
"Are you reading?"
"No." His cheeks reach lower.
"Do you even listen when I talk and give instructions?"
"No."

Nicky doesn't even realize his mistake.

My first instinct was to laugh. I was looking at my most disobedient kid, ignoring my instructions, and yet all I wanted to do was laugh because he had no clue what was going on. Being a professional, I walked away and hid in a corner to hide my smile at his spunkiness. I don't want to encourage him but I also don't want him to lose that innocence, that lovability. Oh, and those cheeks too!

Anecdotes

Only Opportunities

by Tami C. Ryan

I was in the midst of my divorce, and my son, Mitchell, lived with me. As a teen, Mitchell had struggles of his own. These struggles were usually ones he considered to be monumental – ones that, oftentimes, revolved around his friends, or, more specifically, a female. He was also attempting to come to some kind of terms of his own with the divorce. Needless to say, money was tight during that time, struggles were abundant, and the air was sometimes thick with tension. I knew I was a survivor and, although it was sometimes difficult to retain my optimistic nature, I’d often catch myself and have to purposefully, intentionally, realign my attitude.

In spite of everything, Mitchell and I had a very close relationship and had always communicated well. There were many times when Mitchell would tell me about a problem he had. I’d listen and, together, we’d talk it out, discuss the options, and come up with several solutions. What I remember most, though, was the fact that I constantly reminded Mitchell that “there are no ‘problems,’ only opportunities.” Most often, it took some convincing on my part, but I believed that by being consistent, my positive attitude would begin to rub off on him. In hindsight, I suppose I repeated that phrase as more of a reminder to myself than to him. Regardless, it became our mantra during that time.

We lived in a fairly large apartment in an old house then, and one day, I was at the opposite end of the apartment when I heard Mitchell calling me. “Mo-o-o-o-mmm… Mo-o-o-o-m!” I answered him, but he didn’t hear me, as I headed in the direction of his voice. “Mom!” he called, louder this time.

When I arrived in the kitchen, he was lying on the floor with his head inside the cupboard beneath the sink. From where I stood, I could clearly see a small lake on the floor. Mitchell looked up at me and said, “Well, Mom… we have a major opportunity this time!

It worked.


Tami C. Ryan is a freelance writer and editor and an award-winning poet. She is the editor of The Sacred Female, a novel of sexuality and spirituality, which will be released in late July.

Ryan is also a nationally certified counselor of both sexual assault and domestic violence. She often uses her poetry to give voice to victims, particularly those of sexual abuse.

Her two cats, Googs and Onyx, currently allow her to reside with them in South-Central Pennsylvania, where she regularly writes book and movie reviews.

You can read more of Tami’s work at Author's Den.

Anecdotes

Having Your Cake and Eating it Too

by Arlena de Bruin

It wasn’t long ago when I was sitting on a patio somewhere with a girlfriend and commiserating over the tribulations of dating in the new millennium when the subject came up.

“Why,” she asks me, lips pouty with that distinctive Merlot tinge, “can I not have my cake and eat it too?”

It was a legitimate question. In fact, legitimate enough for me to ponder for days. What do you do when you have the cake clearly in view but you really want to eat it too?

First of all, whoever coined the phrase “You can’t have your cake and eat it too” should be catapulted to the top ranks of the Sisterhood of Martyrdom. I mean, really, think about it… what kind of self-sacrificing, self-deprecating statement is that?

Let’s reflect on this contradiction a bit further. I have some cake, but I really shouldn’t eat it because…?

It’s a legitimate reason to ponder.

Why must we insist on wallowing in a trough of self denial? Because cakes (not unlike crusts) were never meant to be eaten; they’re only a garnish? Because the Ding Dong/Twinkie empire is merely a front for diet-drug conspirators who morph us into pill-popping, metabolism-boosting junkies? Because somewhere in Vanity Fair it says eating a slice of triple-layer, butter-icing, pound cake will net us a rump like Roseanne?

My opinion: if you’re an enterprising and savvy enough woman to get your hands on a chocolate éclair, why wouldn’t you eat it too?

Perhaps I should put this into perspective. Would you pour yourself a glass of Robert Mondovi Reserve Chardonnay and then use it to re-root your spider-plant? Would you sell your first-born for a pair of Jimmy Choo Panther slingbacks and feed them to your dog? Would you pre-order the Pay-Per-View Sports Action channel for the honeymoon suite on your wedding night?

According to one source, the adage “You can’t have your cake and eat it too” was actually a proverb that was recorded in a book of proverbs by John Heywood in 1546. (Apparently Mr. Heywood has never had a spiritual experience gorging on chocolate fudge cake with six-inch layered icing.) And according to my research, it appears that the saying has continued to evolve over the past few centuries. For example, some variations have been: You can’t eat your cake and have it too. (Well, that’s kinda stating the obvious!) Eat your cake and have the crumbs in bed with you. (When applied to dating, this might have considerable influence.) Or my personal favorite: Why not just bake two cakes?

Case in point: some cakes are absolutely magnificent to look at… a six-tier wedding cake, a replica of a Louis Vuitton handbag sculpted in birthday cake, a confectionary centerpiece of art. Then there’s cake that you just want to slam your face into and inhale like a Hoover Self-Propelled WindTunnel Upright™. It tastes good. It feels good. And if you can make it to the end of the day without going into a diabetic coma then you’re doing, in my sticky opinion, what God had intended.

To be truthful, I’m really not one to talk. I found my cake. I moved in with my cake. I married my cake. I pick my cake’s dirty socks off the bedroom floor. I wash my cake’s toothpaste gob out of the sink. I understand that my cake’s idea of foreplay is watching a rousing 4-3 win hockey game in double overtime.

So, can something be said for patisserie-pounding abstinence? It’s clearly a reason for pause. I turn to my girlfriend and knock back the rest of the Merlot. “Maybe cake should be left to the realms of window shopping.”

Arlena de Bruin is a published humor columnist, freelance writer and novelist who has the ability to find laughter in even the most mundane of life experiences. She lives in BC, Canada with her husband, her seventeen-year-old stepdaughter and twin nine-year-old sons. (If you don’t think that’s a recipe for therapy, then you haven’t lived in a house with three boys and a teenager!) Arlena’s philosophy: life is comedy in motion… there’s never a disaster you can’t find humor in! Her column has appeared in newspapers, magazines and on the Web. She is presently looking for a publisher for her first novel, From Indigo to Eden. For more of Arlena’s anecdotes please visit the regular Columnist sections of www.castanet.net and www.ilovekelowna.com.

Anecdotes

Prince Charming

by Jessica Cruz

It started like any other holiday weekend away from college - the dorms were closed and I had to leave with everything I would need (i.e. owned). This was part of my college ritual: the periodic traveling on school breaks with all of my belongings via various methods of public transportation. I was 'bag lady.'

No one ever helped me (nor did I expect them to, considering the popular mantra, "If you pack it, you carry it") except for the occasional stranger that held a door (and nothing else). Oh, and there was once an elderly man who looked too frail to help me, which made me feel terrible about actually accepting his help.

I'd haul my entire life on my back (small backpack), left shoulder (medium-sized duffel) and right hand (vertical rolling large suitcase). One Christmas break, I had a great idea. I would just have one bag - big, vertical and with wheels. This would solve all of my problems - you can't be bag lady if you only have one bag, right? And if it has wheels, what does it matter if it weighs twice as much as you do?

Well, what if it's supposed to stand upright, but it doesn't? Now you have a floppy 29 inch tall bag with shopping cart wheels that go in every direction they please - the direction you don't want them to and in directions they themselves can't agree on. The bag flips over, you're trying to navigate the Port Authority bus terminal, potholes and New Yorkers, it's nighttime, and did I mention that it was raining? Damsel in distress, where was prince char... wait, who am I kidding, I needed a busboy. I was on 8th Avenue and needed to get to 5th.

As I made my way out of the bus station, a man with an accent held the door for me and offered to help me. Very unusual until I figured out why... he thought I was only going up to the curb for a taxi. When I explained to him that I needed to get to 5th Avenue, he didn't smirk and say "good luck." He looked worried and said he would walk with me, and told me to give him my bag. To any native New Yorker, this would set off several alarms. Imagine filing a police report later: the officer says to you, "So let me get this straight, you handed him your bag?" But at this point, I pushed that thought aside and thought, Hey, if this guy steals it, that's 150 lbs of weight off my back - thanks buddy.

On our way to 5th Avenue, he carried the bag and I held an umbrella over us. I also briefly got to know him. I don't remember his name, nor his country of origin, but I do remember that he was African and I was planning a trip to South Africa that upcoming summer. So for the 10 minutes it took us to get to my other bus stop, he told me about his travels to South Africa, as well as about the place where he was from. He was from a more traditional area of Africa where a local kingdom still exists. He casually mentioned that he could have been king had he not refused to marry the princess. Politics cause kingdoms to change often and as he put it, it's great to be king when your party is in control, but when control changes via force/turmoil and you suddenly have to seek exile because you are part of the royal family, it has its downfalls. He didn't want to be any part of that so he has made a life that does not include being a prince. Or so he thought, for he was certainly my prince charming that night.

Jessica Cruz is a sassy nomad and IT professional who would like to believe she is more interesting than her job. She's now a suburbanite commuter who would love to be back in NYC and take the subway to get to places. In her spare time, she wishes she knew what to do with her spare time.