Bad habits die hard

Some months ago, I put up a post entitled Thoughtlessness can breed contempt. I won't go into too much detail; one can read it if they really want to know.

This morning, the same editor who was the subject of Thoughtless, opened his mouth again. This time, however, extended conversation revealed that he's not necessarily thoughtless. It seems, instead, that he's simply very opinionated, but unable to (or unwilling to) view a circumstance from any perspective beyond his own. That is, he doesn't take into account that another person's experiences might color the actions they take in any given situation.

Today, a local reader called with a story to tell. She was born and raised in Kenya, but emigrated to the U.S. as an adult. She'd just returned to the States from visiting her family. The destruction and devastation she saw prompted her to plan a return trip. But first, she wanted to tell us about her visit.

"She's crazy," he said when I told him we needed to hook her up with a reporter before she left again. "That's wacko, going back there."

"No," I insisted, "she saw something there that moved her. She saw her people, maybe even her family, suffering and she wants to help because she's in a better position to do so than the people she left behind. That's her country, no matter where she lives now. Those are her people."

"Yeah," he said. "She's either brave, or vastly misinformed about the situation there."

"She was there," I whispered furiously, afraid we'd get into another shouting match. "That's why she's calling us. She was there and she thinks she needs to share what she saw before she goes back to try to do something about it."

"Well," he told me, "that is crazy."

I'm starting to think this man, as likable as he is in a casual sort of way, might be lacking in all fellow feeling. In the same way he thought this woman was "crazy" I told him some might think him "cowardly" and/or "selfish".

"But I don't care what people think of me," he said.

Usually, I'd say that was an admirable sentiment. In this matter, however, I wish he cared just a bit.

Flatterer

I can't help but notice that good men who truly care about a woman, tend to view her physical attributes through slightly rose-tinted glasses. As flattering as that may be, it can't be practical in every day life.

James had T-shirts made, advertising the pub, giving the much of the first second runs out to his regulars as a kind of thanks-for-your-continued-custom gift. These were heavy cotton long-sleeved Ts, in sizes running from men's medium to men's XXL. He ordered them in a heathered grey, in a deep navy, and the T-shirt place threw in a single dark green for free. All had a logo somewhat resembling that of Celtic FC (his favorite team, of course). I was not given any these.

Instead, James wanted my input on having a shirt made up especially for me. While I probably like Celtic more than most American women, when given a choice, I opted to have an image depicting facade of the pub itself. Of my three favorite colors, we chose brown and orange for my shirt. (I have more than enough green clothes, as James pointed out.) Though I wanted brown printing on an orange shirt, James convinced me to do the opposite.

longstoryshort:

I wanted a men's medium. Big, loose clothes are comfortable, and help me blend into shadows. James thought I was being ridiculous and wouldn't order anything larger than a men's small or women's medium. So be it. The shirt was to be a gift, after all.

Except that's not what happened. Somehow, in the ordering process, the "or women's medium" was lost, and when the printer translated the shirt into women's sizes (he'd met me and knew that I was a smallish woman), made me a women's small, instead.

The shirt, which James presented to me with a flourish (and a warning that it was smaller than I wanted) last night, is absolutely beautiful!! I mean, it is gorgeous. Lovelier than any of the ones he gave out to the men who hang out in the pub. And he was also right about orange on brown looking better than the reverse.

But, the shirt is too small for me. That is, it's too small for my tastes.

Yes, I have a closet full of skimpy tops which I wear quite often. But those are aways, always used with layered outfits. I strip off or add layers, as needed, when wearing them.

But I can't layer anything over my lovely shirt. It would kind of defeat the purpose. It's not practical for an active-but-clumsy woman like me.

I was uncomfortable with the fit, but I modelled for James and his patrons, anyway.

"It's cute," said the only other woman in the bar. "Not too small at all -- as long as it doesn't shrink in the wash."

James, of course, told me I looked great.

"I was worried that logo was too big when I saw how small the shirt turned out to be," he said, eyeing the orange building covering my left breast, "but it looks great. Better than I could have imagined."

And judging by the glint in his eyes when he said it, he meant every word.

wunderbare Leben redux

It's Wednesday (Tuesday when I started this post), and I'm still cheesing from a wonderful weekend. This isn't your everyday Tara typing.

When last I got caught up in actually doing my job, I was about to get out of the tub and head over to the library for the very first session of my ASL class. Outside temperatures were ridiculously chilly, and I had only a few minutes to spare.

Needless to say, I jumped into the car, still damp, and rushed to the library. Which turned out to be only a four or five blocks away. And completely devoid of parking. By the time I'd circled the neighborhood five times, I was 15 minutes late for class.

I was just parking the car at home (17 minutes late, now) when Shannon called. She decided to pull a sickie and help sort me (and my abandonned chores) out. We talked as I walked to class.

longstoryshort:
Shannon: I'll be there in 2 and 1/2 hours. Get to class.
Me: Bring party clothes.
Shannon: Get to class, little sister. Bundle up!"
Me (looking down at my thin autumn jacket): Umm... oh... Ooops! I'm here. Gotta go!

Class turned out to be great, and big sister greater.

The party was fun -- I got to dance to lot's of lost music from my youth -- though I didn't get to see much of James, as he was busy slinging drinks. I was near-dreanched in sweat by the time we headed home around 1-ish.

While Shannon sensibly went to sleep, I stayed up until 4 a.m., rereading the last six chapters of Lamplighter until the room stopped spinning.

And.... and, looking back, there was nothing remotely wonderful about my rushed, crazy, mind-spinning weekend. Except that I feel good.

Could it be, I'm just freaking happy?

Maybe.

Meine wunderbare Leben

Sometimes things just come together and the most unlikey of situations work out beautifully. In spite of many missteps and false starts, that's exactly how my week ended. I know I've done my share of moaning and groaning, but life is good. For now, anyway.

Saturday, really, was the loveliest of days, despite the chill. Only, I fear it didn't start out that way.

I woke up late because I'd stayed at James's pub past midnight so that I could be the first person to wish him a happy birthday. Silly, yes. But I didn't want one of his customers to beat me to it. (And love makes us do silly things, nicht wahr?)

So, even though I started to leave soon after delivering my good wishes, James and a handful of customers convinced me to stay for just one more game of darts and for a half pint, and by the time I left nearly two hours later than I'd intended, I was full of good cheer and my hands were full of a gift (another vintage typewriter!) from James. (Yes, I did feel strange accepting a gift on his birthday, but I couldn't say "no" could I?)

Back to Saturday, though.

I didn't wake up until almost 8:30 a.m. -- which isn't bad, considering I'd fallen into bed just 5.5 hours before. But I had a few dozen things I'd wanted to get done before my first class in American Sign Language(!)which started at 10:30.

And since I'm not much of a drinker, I was really feeling the effects of the 2.5 pints of scrumdilicious Bellhaven I'd put away.

Which meant I needed at least an hour in the tub to recover. Still, not bad, as the class was being held in a branch of the library only a fifteen or twenty minute walk (I figured) from my apartment. So, I got in the tub.

I hadn't figured on Lamplighter drawing me in, hangover or no.

Long story short, by the time I forced myself to close the pages of the gazillion-pound review copy, the clock next to my tub was glaring 10:11.

I was soaking wet, outside temperatures were reading 14^oF (-10^oC), and wind gusts up to 25 mph making things feel worse. There was no way I was making it to class on time.

To be continued.

Repost: I hope a shark eats me after I die

I really should be more dilligent about posting here, but it's hard to keep in mind when my two main audiences are captives of Friendster and MySpace. I don't even update my own site anymore.

Anyway, here's my latest that stirred up a debate.

I think cemeteries are a waste of space. And anyone who's ever seen a decent scary movie knows you can't take the space back and build a farm or a housing development over an old burial ground without dire consequences. Although there are a lot of stupid people in this world, most don't want to live with ghosts or eat haunted vegetables.

For as long as I can remember thinking about the subject, I've always told my family I wanted to be cremated after croaking it. I wanted a party instead of a funeral, with possibly a memorial service if they felt it was entirely necessary. And since I was pretty sure I was going to be the first to go, I wanted to make sure no well-meaning relative took it upon themselves to give me a freaking makeover.

But, honestly, I don't want anyone looking at me after I'm dead. I mean, I guess someone has to find and dispose of the body (I nominate my sister, Shannon). Other than that, I'd rather not have anyone poking and prodding at my husk after the lights go out.

It's bad enough my sisters think I lack all sense of fashion and proper grooming -- but not hygiene; they think I bathe enough for a small army of Taras -- and will probably dress the body in some get up I wouldn't have wanted to be caught dead in, but there's also the problem of necrophiles working for funeral homes. I mean, should someone else get to get off on my parts if I'm not a round to enjoy it? I don't think so.

At first, I thought the solution would be getting ripped apart by lions, but since it would be pretty hard for Shannon to get a corpse to the savannah, undetected, I figured maybe wolves would be a better choice. Except, my big sis isn't exactly at one with nature. Plus, wolves might leave something behind for someone else to fiddle with. Which would totally defeat the purpose.

I thought about it and thought about it. The thing is, before she had to learn to walk all over again, Shannon was a big-time beach bunny. It's time and past that she recaptured her love affair with the ocean. So, sharks seem to be the best choice. And the with a whole ocean full of other creatures to gnaw at whatever bits the sharks don't get, I think the body formerly known as Tara would be safe enough from fiddlers and save the Earth from another grave.

She wouldn't do it, though. She's too much of a girly-girl to let me get eaten by a wild animal.