What I'm Really Saying, Is...

The daily adventures of a switchboard operator:

1) Yelling into the receiver does not make your pronunciation any clearer, HONEY.

2) When I clearly ask for your name, do not repeat the name of the person you want to speak with...How could I announce you that way? Now one in their right mind wants to talk with themselves.

3) When I say Sir or Ma'am, it's not a "Respect" thing, it means shut up and listen to me.

4) When I ask you to hold, it doesn't mean speak louder, quicker and more aggressively, so I can hear everything you have to say before I push the hold button, it means, "Hold" DEAR.

5) If I ask you if you'd like to leave a voicemail for the unavailable party, this does not mean leave your message with me. Does my voice sound like a very long and monotoned beeeeeeeep...I don't think so LOVE.

6) If you're a solicitor, and I know it, I'll put you directly to voicemail...I mean come on, using words like "the manager, the owner, or person who's in charge of making decisions," are a dead giveaway... maybe you should be more inventive if you're trying to make money off of cold-calling...please do not call me back 50 times after I direct you to voicemail, then hang up, it's not very becoming of you. Plus, you look like even more of a duffus if I have caller id, which I do...

7) At the end of my greeting, the question, "How may I direct your call?" is not your que to tell me your whole life story. My question really means, "I'm the one making minimum wage at this establishment, maybe you should think twice about telling a nobody all your most intimate life details."

8) Giving me attitude is only gonna land you in the voicemail. No one wants to speak with the Grinch. I'm really doing you a favor. Didn't your mama ever tell you about first impressions?

9) When you get the voicemail of the person you really want to speak with, leave them a voicemail. Do not call me back and say that you were disconnected, because we both know you weren't. You were just too much of a whiny BABY to take what I gave you...

10) When I say they're "unavailable" this doesn't mean we now start to play "20 Questions..." so you can find out what they're really doing. it means they don't want to speak with you now, so call back....never.

11) If I purposefully hang up on you cause you were being a dick, when I answer the line again, I'll always pretend that: a) I'm another person, or b) that it was totally an accident.

12) There's a reason I don't give you my name, so don't ask for it.

These are just a few examples of the daily crap that's dished to your very prompt and helpful 411 operators. So remember, the next time you call INFORMATION, don't act like a dick; Operators are people too!

California License Plate

I've lost count of how many times people have asked me why I still have my CA license plates on my car. I usually just say it's because the tags haven't expired yet;  I'd rather wait until they do to change everything, including my driver's license. The truth of the matter is I'm very attached to my CA plates. Honestly, I believe the these plates are my excuse to be an aggressive or otherwise bad driver. My theory is, even if I piss someone off to the point that they'd want to shoot me, they won't, because they'd see the plates and say,  "Californians are just rude and that we don't know any better." I also think that people behind me are less apt to follow closely because they don't always know what I may do...(Hence the picture on the left...) If you hug my butt, you'd better believe I'll go slower. If you're acting like a cactus-ass and start weaving in and out of traffic, oh yeah, I'm the chick blocking you in. There are two things you never do on the road:  One: Cut off a guy in a Mercedes talking on his cell phone, and Two: Piss off a Californian behind the wheel. Moral of the story: I keep my CA plates because their my excuse for bad behavior...there I said it!

Silicone Heart

Ok, Ok! So she'll die looking more like the Crypt Keeper...

It is nothing more than infatuation, I know this now. Everyone tells me that I'm up to my ears in a one-sided relationship, but do I believe their rather convincing and dramatic pleas for my retribution and sanity, No...I ignore their wisdom and insight in exchange for my temporary high and blind love. Love for "living in the moment." Love for the scene. Love for the pace, for the flow. Love for the expectancy of it's inhabitants. Love for the never-resting nights and the ever-running days. I hate to love the constantly exhausting plethora of attractive features and amenities offered. I hate lying awake at night, wondering if yesterday's hard work will be enough for the demands of tomorrow. The overdose of my anxiety and anticipation of the unknown here leaves me scarred and tired. I mustn't let the others see my bloodshot eyes; I have to make them think this place which preys on everyone and everything has accepted me, for me, because I'm different and special. They mustn't see how I long for the acceptance and validity of this place's addictive and enthralling sensuality and mystery. This place satisfies and provides more than adequate access to venues for my shoe addiction, but at what cost? This place wines and dines me, but still, where's the love? I find now it's harder to breathe; not just on account of the smog and pollution that seizes the silicone heart of this place, but for the constant call to be "civilized" and "enlightened" in my "Stepford" SELF. Every creature's relentless pursuit of success here is more important than the "pursuit of happiness." They all think they're a big deal, the next big thing...Does that give the nobodies a right to treat all the other nobodies like crap? Well, apparently, as long as you have money to burn, you can do and be anyone. Here, you can die looking like Catherine Zeta-Jones, when you were really born looking like the crypt keeper. Awe, the wonders and blessings of being a Californian!

Toxic Tongues

I remember as a little girl watching old western films with my dad. I idolised men like John Wayne and Gregory Peck for their foundation character and their willingness to die honoring their word. I strongly believe that this breed of men is slowly rotting away into the fabric of our imaginations. Soon they will be nothing more than a distant memory, or just a tall-tale mocked. Through the combination and progression of time, carelessness and "for the sake of advancement," the importance of our words have depreciated. Didn't we learn anything from "The Boy Who Cried Wolf?" You know, the kid who falsely cried for help from his fellow herdsman. When he really needed assistance, the memory of his laughing and mockery at their willingness to assist, kept the herdsman from his side when he was in desperate need of their help. We've traded true security for comfort. We've traded truth and honor for excuses and the "art of being tolerant." And that word, "tolerant..." makes me want to barf. Words use to be a declaration and mirror of one's soul; now-a-days we have to "read into" things and prepare for the worst. And if we're too trusting and take things at face value, we're stupid and should have known better. I've come to the conclusion that in this day and age, our words and promises are like mailers - cheap and disposable. Every once in a while there will be one worth keeping; of course if it's free or non-sacrificial. Isn't that sad...Looks to me like the world needs one of two things. One, to be taken over the knee of God and have a good hard spanking, or two, wake up from the promiscuous thought of phenomenal dimension, that we're all entitled to change our minds at the drop of a hat at everyone else's convenience. Or, we could cut the bull crap, and actually start to mean what we say. My hand's raised for the spanking people!

Every Day Happenstances (Good Morning!)

I hit the snooze button about 5 times before I decide if I wait any longer, I'll be late. I peek out the sliding glass door at the top of the small bistro table on our balcony to see what the weather has in store for the day. Huff...Thought so! I guide myself by the light seeping through the vertical blinds from the apartments behind us. They never turn off that stupid light. Aww well. I just about trip over the duvet that's fallen to the ground through our tossing and turning all night long. I was wondering why I was so cold last night. Maybe that's why I was dreaming I was in the arctic with only my bathrobe on. I'm glad I caught myself before running into the monster of a TV we have in the bedroom. I was a firm believer in the "TV's Ruin the Romance" statement, until I married a man who believed firmly in the "TV equals Romance" bit, so I compromised. I crack the bedroom door and brace myself for the sudden pounce and bound into the room from Abraham Lincoln, our cat, not the President. After recovering from this near death experience, I chase Mr. Lincoln, which further encourages his wit and rebellion. I finally surrender the exhausting task of "find the kitty under the bed." Of course I couldn't tell the difference between a cat and all the bunched together crap underneath my bed anyway. What was I thinking? That was a waste of my precious time.  I make my way down the hallway to the bathroom. I always manage to turn on the brightest light in the bathroom, blinding myself temporarily before I can find the switch to change the light source. Dang! I thought I left my morning face wash out last night, just so I wouldn't have to crouch under the sink to find everything but my morning face wash. I guess it's another game of hide and seek. I turn the water to hot, and while I wait for what seems like forever for it to warm up I decide I have enough time to relieve myself. Dag-nabit, out of toilet paper. Then of course I try to remember if I was the one to take the last of it, assuring myself that I wouldn't be so irresponsible. Moving on... The water is finally a good temperature to wash my face without sending my body into shock. Pat face dry, rub in lotion, brush teeth, clean ears, turn on flat iron and curling iron. Phew...done in under 10 minutes. Thank goodness! Don't judge, that's a world record for some. I walk out of the bathroom and turn toward my bedroom. There's Mr. Lincoln, right in the middle of the walkway, trying to dodge me as I dodge him. And who should lose their balance but me, the master. You'd think after having to do this for the last several months, I'd get the picture...he's trying to kill me. After totally embarrassing myself, I find my way back to the bedroom and get out my makeup, all 50 bags of it. Or so it seems like somedays. I usually sit in front of our wardrobe mirror and apply my makeup. This is not the best position to be in first thing in the morning; I've found myself falling asleep easily. I spend the next half hour trying to keep the cat off my lap while I try to creativaly reinvent cosmetic history. Not always so successful when 15% of my focus is actually on applying my face. Have to wash all that makeup off my hands now. Time to do the do. Straight or curly? Wait! What am I wearing again? Did I even remember to pick out my clothes last night? How about instead of standing here trying to figure it out, I go back to my closet and find out. Oh! Now I remember, black, black and black...how could I forget, I wear that color every day. While I'm standing here, I might as well get dressed, then do my hair. What time is it? Ok, I have 15 mintues. I can do this. I slip on my outfit and run to the bathroom, quickly flat iron my hair, spray some fake shine over the top of my head, unplug the irons, grab my purse and run downstairs. Feed the cat, down a cup of cold coffee, grab a yogurt and my lunch and head for the door. I always pause before opening the door. "Did I forget anything?" But even though I ask myself this question just before leaving, I always manage to forget something...important.

To be Continued---

I'm Always the Better Driver

(Heavy Breathing) "Mama?" (Heavy Breathing and a Little Crying) "Mama?!"

I'm terrified every time I get into the car with my husband. I never know if it's going to be a road rage kind of day or a Sunday driver type of day. It seems that my only source of comfort in these moments is the arm rest on the passenger side door. Every time I reach for it, a comment is made by my husband to defend his insane driving skills. It's just like in the movies, when the passenger looks out the window, they're looking straight down a cliff that seems to go on, forever and ever. With one hand over my eyes, and one hand on the arm rest, my life flashes before me...The realization of my inexperiences in life usually sparks a reaction similar to a Banshee's scream. At this point, his recklessness turns from blissful ignorance to purposeful exasperation. He knows he's got me in a vulnerable and perplexed position, so why not make the most of it, right! The real fun begins, as my expression goes from tolerance to complete terror... (See below)

Yes, I feel exactly like all these poor souls!

Question is, why am I so freaked out? Or better yet, why do I care if he drives too fast or too slow? It's not as if we've ever been in an accident due to my husband's erratic driving behavior. I guess that's just like a woman, isn't it; wanting the complete opposite from what we actually have. Am I just perturbed because I'm not in control or getting my way? We're all entitled to our opinions, right? But at what cost? When did being right become more important than being kind? Culture has inflated the necessity of rightness, which has led to tension and resentment of one another, especially in a marriage. I will be the first to admit, I use the excuse of "femininity" as an advantage of rightness whenever given the opportunity. You know, "Hunny, I need you to take out the trash? Hunny, can you drive slower? Hunny, can you move this 300 pound chair a little to the left? Hunny, can you stick your hand down the disposal and get the cat's collar out?" Then all of the sudden, we're looking at them like they're freaks for opening doors for us; how dare they, cause we're strong, independent, do-it-ourselves, type of women, and how could they take away our dignity like that! You know you're right and no one is going to change your mind. In the case of my husband's driving, I'm the "back seat driver" because of my insecurity in my lack of control in that specific situation, so this makes me "right." This is why comments like, "Chill Out," or "Calm Down" are not welcomed with open arms, but retorted with a gasp and folded arms or a Banshee scream.

This Is Called, "My Personal Space"

So you're talking to someone, you're having a great conversation, really connecting...all the sudden someone you "sort of know" comes up to the two of you and kind of hovers around, closer than you'd like them too. At first you try to ignore them, thinking, "Okay, if I give them the cold shoulder long enough, maybe they'll go away." But oh no, they stay. Like a vulture waiting to devour its dead prey, they stay. You try to switch bodily positions so that there is no way you can make eye contact with them. You can suddenly hear the pounding of your heart, and you're pretty sure everyone else can too. The frustration turns to sweat beads on your forehead. "Why haven't they left yet?!?!"  Then you feel guilty for standing there, having a great conversation that they're not apart of. So you try to introduce them into the conversation as smoothly as possible, pretending that you had no idea they were standing there the whole time...It's awkward, it's uncomfortable, and you just want to crawl underneath any piece of furniture willing to invite you into it's space. Isn't it usually a person you're ashamed of knowing or are embarrassed to  have even conversed with. You try sending hinted apologies and slight notes of caution to the blissfully unaware participant. "Do not get personal!! You'll regret it..." is what your bloodshot eyes are trying to convey to your poor friend. Sadly, this circular chain of events will never change until you "claim your space." Just like in AA, maybe you should introduce yourself as the following: "Hello, my name is Meaghan, and I have stiff boundaries. So don't even think about breaking through my barrier!" Or maybe we should all go through life with one arm stretched out in front, and one stretched behind, so there is no confusion over where your "bubble" begins and ends. But who wants to do that all day? How could we drink our coffee, or text while we drive? So, to the personal space invaders, get a clue, take a pill or find someone else to creep out, please.

High School Never Ends

Doesn't this look familiar...Odd man out...again!

Isn't it great when you graduate high school, you feel like you're able to begin your life, clean slate, responsible and drama free. You almost feel like a valuable person again. There's a concise and purposeful plan set for your future, which was crafted and designed for you by your Creator. Butterflies flutter in your stomach every time you think about what's in store for your life. You work your way through college, live off of cheap pasta, you finally get a job as an intern or beginning professional, and it's absolutely no different than walking to Mrs. Wood's English class in high school. You still have to deal with the backstabbing barracudas and melodramatic pre-Madonnas. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up at the thought and memories of your depressing high school days of the initiation of the "underdogs."  Do you really have to relive the all the regrettable defeats of adolescence again? All you want to say in retort to this travesty is, "You're just the worst kind of people!" and never have to look at them again. They all suddenly seem like the bridge jumping people your parents warned you about. There is always some sort of price that has to be paid in order to be accepted and valued. The cliques are just as impossible to become apart of and the groups and clubs are just as exclussive. You know the person who invented the VIP status was probably some mean girl in school, looking for a way to exclude the "frumpy girls" from specail events. The VIP tickets would be Darwin's "fittest" in the survival of the fittest theory of evolution. The world has distorted the truth of value and purpose and where we seek out acceptance. What would you rather be defined as, some snoby girls' version of a bad joke, or a reflection of your Creator?

Sheets and Lemons...Similarities?

So, how the hell are you supposed to fold a fitted sheet? I've even saved the tri-folded cardboard that comes in the sheet packaging to try and master the folding techniques that look like something out of a "How To Become O.C.D" self-help book...I've gone to such great lengths as to clearing off and standing on top of my bed, laying the fitted sheet across the bed and attempting to perfectly fold the flaps under, over, between and around...This is when I had an epiphany. A smirk slowly crept across my face. I threw up my hands in the air and praised God for this great deliverance...All this time I had been griping and complaining over the fact that I couldn't perfectly fold my sheets, when all along all I had to do was throw them into my linen closet and forget about it. Problem solved. I won't get a migraine every time I strip my bed, and the sheets will be even more accessible and easy to pull out of the closet. I'll also be able to distinguish the difference between the fitted and flat sheet. The nicely folded and stacked pile will always be the flat sheets, and the ones balled up in the corner of the linen closet are obviously the fitted sheets.

If you absolutely, positively have to fold your fitted sheet, cause you're just as crazy as me, here are the several ways I've tried (and failed) to get the perfect folding results:

One: Stand on top of the bed, lay the fitted sheet flat and try to eyeball and fold the corners underneath each other. (This was just frustrating.)

Two: Save the cardboard that comes with the sheet set. Pull the sheet around the cardboard and stuff the excess into the cardboard. It's really not folded at all, it just looks like it. (This was just a big fat lie.)

Three: Have your husband hold one end while you hold the other. Slowly walk toward each other with your arms pulling the sheet widely apart and hope the air flowing between you two doesn't disrupt the shape and folding you did with the sheet in the air. (Exhausting and created an argument.)

Four: Start at one end and roll the sheet together and fold the sheet in half. (Just looked funny.)

Five: Throw the sheet set away and buy a new one. (This could get kind of expensive.)

Six: Leave the sheet in the dryer until you need it. (I don't really recommend this one. The sheet is just in the way when you try to do laundry.)

Seven:  Just ball it up and throw it into your linen closet. (My Favorite.)

When life hands you lemons, screw the lemonade, make margaritas!

Promless and Powerful

This is just sad! At least I never had to worry
 I'd be voted the "Fat Hoochie Prom Queen."

Whenever someone finds out that I never went to prom, they always have this look of amazement and pity on their face. I receive their pitiful expression as an implication that I'm an incomplete person for not attending prom, or that I missed out on one of life's pleasures rarely achieved. I laugh inside. I know my promlessness has made me powerful, and a better person. I believe that I have benefited greatly from my lack of "experience" in the realm of high school standards. Movies seem to glorify this shallow and over dramatized event by leading the viewers to believe that a special young lady will be the belle of the ball and that all of her dreams will come true. Well, every young lady cannot be Cinderella. The mass media has falsified true individuality, in turn, creating a  rebellious generation. It's the great struggle in discovering  one's uniqueness, consequently followed by self preservation. Either the search for individuality takes over one's life, or we take complete control, therefore becoming the "Control Freak." Either way, we lose. I don't think I missed out on much that would have added to my value or confidence as a woman, or a person for that matter. I didn't have to worry about not being asked to go, or seeing the guy I like go with my ex-bff, who knew I liked him and went with the dude anyways. Or the awkward slow dance conundrum. Where do I put my hands? I don't want to be promiscuous or a prude. Is my hair staying? It should be, cause I dumped about 2 cans of hairspray on it. Speaking of cans, is he really trying to look down my dress right now? If I slap him, I'll have to leave early, and how will I get home? How could I walk through the halls of school ever again? I'll be notoriously known as the prude who slapped and ditched her prom date. I love how people think that there's no hope for those who never attended prom, hated prom, or made a fool of themselves at prom. And now-a-days, a girl has to wonder or await the decision to lose her virginity at prom to some immature 16 year old who doesn't have a clue what he's doing. Also the type of music and dancing that's acceptable at prom now, absolutely disgusting! It looks more like dogs humping. I don't think that's where a dad wants his teenage daughter running off too with her ridiculously flirtatious and boy-crazy girlfriends. I didn't worry about giving into the peer pressures or the nagging and false assurance of who society told me to be. Instead, I picked up a great classic novel and lived vicariously through my favorite young heroines. I believe that my family gave me the proper tools to create for myself a truly unique identity, therefore instilling in me a satisfying safeness in who I am. Prom, who needs you?