Wardrobe Malfunctions

I had a date with The Professor tonight. It's a long story why we planned a nice dinner on a Wednesday, so I won't bore you with the details - especially when I can offer you the following:

1) I was wearing a geometric-print tunic top over black pants - feeling pretty sassy. At some point during the day though, I sat on the tunic and pulled too much on the silk fabric and ripped a three-inch hole in the seam. And where was that hole? Approximately - no, directly - exposing my lovehandle every time I sat.

2) To finish off my sassy look, I wore black patent leather slingbacks. After dinner, we were walking through downtown and my heel wedged into a hole in a sewer cover. As I stepped forward and realized my foot was caught, I sort of fell into The Professor and grunted. He said, "Wow. That was kind of awesome. I've never actually seen that happen to anyone." And then - "That noise you made was...something. Really low." And then he reenacted it.

So much for bringing sexy back.

A Letter to the Wretched Wanker Who Parked Next to Me

Dear Idiot Oversized Tank Driver:
I cannot believe that you parked next to me in the impossibly small space clearly marked for "compact cars only" in the Parking Deck of Death. I mean, I've only been in it three times now, and let's face it, there's hardly room in those spaces for a moped. So what were you thinking, you yuppie sleezeball, parking in that tiny, tiny space and effectively trapping me in the space next to the poor unsuspecting somewhat-used Camry? Because I had no way to get out. I mean, it was an Austin Powers moment times ten, but as careful as I was, I still scratched the Camry's bumper and mine. That's right, King Suburban. Your craptastic parking job forced me to hit a parked car in order to get out of my parking space - and I was there first. What was the problem? Couldn't put down your Starbucks long enough to figure out your behemoth car couldn't fit in the space? So then I stood there, wringing my hands and wondering what to do and left a hastily scrawled note for slightly-used Camry that said, "I hit your car. If you need to reach me, call me. My apologies."

And this is my note to you. I hate you, King Suburban. I was already having a vile, miserable day. Thanks for making it even better. Because of you, I cried on the way home. I hope you can live with that.

Have your insurance people call my insurance people.

Ash

A Series of Miscellany

Rediscovered
* 99x Morning Show
* Random songs - Bush's "Machinehead", The Cranberries' "Linger", Live's "Selling the Drama"
* How much I love driving alone to work in the morning
* Can go to Weaver D's any time I want (The Goofball said he'd go with me)

Noticed
* A very cute drawing in the graphic designer's sketchbook of -- and labeled as -- "bee"
* Friends -- real friends -- and how important they are to me right now
* Details of new commute - the morning sky from the top of the Atl. Hwy. by Peking
* How nice everyone is to me at the office - like the creative director who just "wanted to chat" with me today while I was in the Big City

Embarrassed
* Inability to communicate properly with one of The Owner's of the Company due to my nervousness and his intense pauses which seem to prompt me to say, "I'm excited to be here" eighteen times
* Calling the Big City office today when I got lost on the streets of downtown Hotlanta (thanks to Eva, I at least made it to Peachtree Street)
* Failure to connect senses of humor with any of the men in the office - do only women find me funny?

Only in ATown
* Going to happy hour tomorrow with coworkers preceding our viewing of a documentary about gypsies at the new art house theatre
* Plans for lunch downtown Friday to take in the opening game weekend Dawgs madness
* Next company outing to see coworker who is lead singer of a band

Feeling
* Sad
* Hopeful
* Ready for bed

Me & Cherie Go Up & Down

For those of you who live (or have lived) in N.C., you know Cherie Berry. She's the first occupant on every elevator in the state, the Commissioner of Labor, smiling down at you and letting you know that the elevator has been inspected for your safety. I've missed her since I moved to Georgia, who so far as I can tell, has no such Patron Saint of Elevators.

I felt a little twinge over the weekend while in a hotel in Raleigh when I saw Cherie sitting serenely above the button panel when I got in to take the luggage cart back to the lobby. Maybe that's why I mistook the "6" button for a "G" and exited the elevator two floors above our fourth floor room. By the time I saw that the numbers were in the 600s, the elevator had closed and descended. I called another one, selected the proper "G" button, and rode down the requisite six floors. When the doors slid open, I pushed the cart out, only to find myself on the parking deck level, at which point I began to laugh, and, therefore, missed my chance to get back on the elevator. I finally reached the Mezzanine level (oh, you're so fancy, Hampton Inn, with your mezzanine level) and returned the cart.

I started to take the stairs back up, but I didn't want to give up just a bit more time with Cherie. For old time's sake.

Loose Lips Sink Ships

I've never been able to keep my mouth shut. It's a rather famous family story that when my brother made the eighth grade basketball team, he left me home alone to go celebrate with his best friend Andrew and admonished me not to tell my mother when she arrived home. But when the time came, try as I might, I couldn't lie, my lips quirking up on both sides as I tried to sound miserable and say that he hadn't made the team. I don' remember what Justin said when he found at I'd told - I guess he knew better the next time.

If I were in Harry Potter, I'd never be anyone's secret-keeper. Not because I'm not loyal. On the contrary: I'm loyal to a fault, more willing than most to sacrifice myself for the comfort of others. But what I know and - possibly more intensely - what I feel, I must tell. And even when I have the best intentions of not telling, the words come tumbling out of my mouth before I even know what's happening.

Perhaps all the secretiveness was taken up by my sister, who is classically trained in evasion tactics. If she has no interest in telling you something, she is not easily tricked into doing so. I, on other hand, will tell my life's secrets with only the slightest provocation. I find myself telling people things all the time that I will think only later that I should've kept to myself.

I wish I were more secretive and mysterious, but I am the proverbial open book. I seem to have no control over the emotions that play across my face, and when I try to exert control, it's so unnatural that people can easily discern that I'm trying to hide something. And when one word would do, I overcompensate with ten. I'm like Bridget Jones with my chronic verbal diarrhea.

Even when I admonish myself again and again and again that I will not say something aloud, I will inevitably end up scolding myself inwardly when I'm mid-story with someone. And not a lover of conflict, I often find myself telling the wrong things to the wrong people. In order to exorcise myself of what I'm feeling, I tell Person A when I should really be addressing things with Person B. Some people suffer in silence, but I find that I must suffer aloud. And one of these days, my runaway tongue is going to get me in trouble.

While some may find this sort of open-facedness charming, I find it often comes along with a fair measure of regret when I realize that I've said too much. And there is something to be said for reservation when it's appropriate, as it keeps one from being altogether inappropriate. My loose tongue instead seems to plague me. It's rather a character flaw, I find, to need to tell my story all the time. Even now, I'm wondering if I've said too much.

Pretty Good Yell

When I was in college and minoring in theatre - yes, I was going to be the next Streep - I had a professor who constantly berated us for having Ted Nugent Neck. Ted Nugent Neck occurred when you failed to project properly from the diaphragm and ended up straining your neck trying to sound loud enough. I was particularly bad about this. And on Friday, on the way home, I was listening to Tori Amos' "Pretty Good Year" and giving my all to the "HEY" part when I full on experienced Ted Nugent Neck and then - ouch. I'm not sure what happened, but I definitely felt a pop and imagined that I could hear it, too. Now I'm taking Aleve every couple of of hours to alleviate my enthusiasm.

Neighbor Interrupted

When I parked behind the house tonight, I noticed that the interior light in my neighbors' Honda was on. Being the good Samaritan I am, I knocked on their door on my way in...no response. With the car out back and the lights I'd seen on in the kitchen, I knew someone was home. I thought maybe they hadn't heard me. So I rang the bell. After waiting a few more moments, I started up the stairs. Then their apartment door creaked open and shut. I went back and tapped lightly on the door. She opened the door, hair rumpled, wearing a men's shirt, not all the way buttoned. "Oh," I said before I could think about it. "I just, um, wanted to...to let you know that, uh, the light's on in your car." I finished rather breathlessly, laughed a little nervous laugh. She thanked me in this awkward, overly appreciative way and closed the door. That's the last time I do a good deed - when someone else is doing the deed.

Smash Lives

For those of you who may not know, once upon a time, I used to be called Smash due to a certain lack of grace & poise. And just to live up to the nickname, in the past two days at work, I have cut my arm on a zip tie, pulled a ream of copy paper down on my head and gotten a wicked paper cut on a file folder. And then this little Three Stooges moment (sans two stooges) in the supply closet. I went to put back some software that I had used, and the shelf was just out of my reach, but I figured I could tip it up on the shelf and push it into place. But there was already some stuff there, so when I tipped it over the shelf, it slanted down and fell on my head. In my eagerness to get out from under the rain of software, I stepped back onto the dust mop, making the handle hit me soundly in the head. And so I stepped forward on the vacuum cleaner and knocked it over, losing balance myself and grabbing the doorframe to keep from falling. We laughed til we cried.

This Morning on "Grace" Street

Last night before going to bed, I had it all planned. Throw all the things I needed for work into a tote to enable me to carry the rotting trash downstairs in one trip. I made it down two flights before one of my shoes or feet or the steps faltered. In one of those slow-motion moments, I dropped my keys, possibly the trash and landed hard on my butt/lower back with a loud "OOF!" I think I might've knocked the breath out of myself. And landed badly on my hip or leg. Anyway. The point is that I felt old and clumsy, had a little bit of that foul smelling garbage juice on me and I may crush and juice about 20 ibuprofen. Ouch.

Oops, I Hugged a Client!

I had an awkward moment at work today that I keep thinking about, and it alternately makes me laugh and wince. I had an event today at a country club/golf course. They wanted everything to be pretty and had wet down the greens, turning the whole place into a turf sauna. And for those of you who don't golf, there aren't many trees to be found, so there's NO SHADE. The heat index was around 105, and I found the heat threshold for both my makeup and my hair - both of which wilted instantly.

After our little course tour, we went inside. As my boss said, for a moment, it almost made you hotter when the air conditioner made you realize how hot you had gotten. At this point, I'm in a crowded room. Ripe with sweat. Completely overheated. Experiencing that strange darkness after your pupils over dilate. When a board member approaches. I wasn't angled properly to shake his hand. And without thinking, I kind of put my arm around him, leaned into him and half hugged him. Now let me clarify by saying this man is much older, could be my dad or under some circumstances, my grandfather, so it was awkward more in the sense that I don't know him very well and not because of sexual harrassment. But I hugged him. And he did seem kind of surprised. Agh. What was I thinking? And my boss was standing right there. I'm pretty sure that's going to be a mark against "professional behavior" on my next review.