…for kate

This poem was found among some cards and letters Kate had saved over the years.  She had copied it down in her handwriting so it’s safe to assume that it meant a great deal to her.  Since her burial is tomorrow, I thought I would honor the day with something she found so compelling.

Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
by Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave bereft
I am not there. I have not left.

…instant messaging can suck it

Many, many things irritate me.  One of my bigger bugbears is being interrupted at work. I realize people have questions and I realize that I’m the one with the lack of patience.  I fully accept my flaws and eat the fault.  I simply cannot abide by instant messaging, though.

A few months ago, our IS department decided to turn all of our laptops into mini-cyborgs with the magic of Office Communicator.  It’s pretty slick program and while I’m not the biggest fan of VOIP, I do love the convenience factor.  What I love most is the ability to share my screen and work collaboratively.  The amount of problems solved in short amount of time is staggering.  Being able to explain something to someone and have them actually get it without rolling out the white board and dry erase markers is sheer joy.

Being interrupted every five fucking minutes (via IM) by some stupid question or “ohaihowareyou” comment is enough to drive me to kill.  I’m so not fucking around here, either.

As I’m happily pecking along, creating a monument to Rube Goldberg in Excel, I am confronted with the ping.  The dreaded ping.  The ping to end all pings.  And I know that on the other side of the ping is an otherwise lovely individual deliberately interrupting my brilliance for their stupid questions.  Or boredom.  Or frustration.

We are not permitted to disable this feature.  Don’t bother setting your status to busy or do not disturb, either.  No one pays any attention to this.  Particularly those who are prone to sending you an instant message about what flavor of oatmeal to have for breakfast.  I don’t fucking care.  Sincerely.  Really.  I don’t care.

I’m not the least bit concerned of the whereabouts of a meeting agenda.  I don’t care that you cannot find something.  I don’t care that you’re doing something tedious and need some amusement to lighten your day.  I. AM.  BUSY.  I am doing something.  I am occupied and that’s all that really matters in this world, isn’t it?

I would love to generate some sort of automatic response that reads:  Unless you’re on fire, kindly fuck off and die.  Alas, I cannot.  I don’t want to hear feedback about my lack of interpersonal skills and that I need to be a “team-player.”   No.  No.  Instead, I will grit my teeth, inhale deeply, slap on a fake smile and say “ohaithar! howareyoutoday?” while pointing a finger gun at my temple.

…holidays in hell

Following Shark’s lead, I present…

“…All the light switches in Europe are upside down.  The electrical plugs are terrifying with nine or a dozen huge, nasty prongs, and you’d better wear rubber boots if you come within a yard of them because house current here is about one hundred thousand volts.  Not that that makes the appliances work. This electric typewriter I’m pounding, for instance – I’d throw it out the window but it’s one of those silly European windows that, when you push it open from the right, comes back around from the left and smacks you in the back of the head.”

page 187

…north carolina equal pay day

Stop.  Before you start making that blah-blah-blah motion with your hands and rolling your eyes, think about this:  what if you made $.81 on the dollar based solely on your gender, your color or your sexual preference?  What if you made $.81 on the dollar even if your peer who is doing the same work is making the full dollar?  Would you be happy?

Much to my mother’s chagrin, I do not consider myself a feminist.  I’m a humanist.  Inalienable rights are exactly that and should not be subjected to wit, whimsy or even the precious Free Market.

I entered the workforce in 1986 and was very fortunate to land a part-time job in an office.  After a year of working for the company, another part-timer was added.  We had the same level of education (we were both students).  I had seniority in so far as seniority goes (which isn’t saying much).  My hourly wage was less than the noob’s. Alas, his plumbing is external and mine is internal.

The only instance in my entire life where I made more than my male counterparts was when I was working as a manager in the marine industry.  Given that the marine industry isn’t exactly female friendly, this was quite an accomplishment.  Or maybe it spoke more to my looking the then CEO in the eye and saying “If you want cheap labor, then you will have cheap labor.  If you want good, if you want talent then you will pay me.”  Since that freak of nature, I doubt I have been on par with any of my male colleagues.

I cannot accept that women should make less because we’re busy making babies.  I cannot accept that women should make less because we are women.  I cannot accept that anyone should make one cent less for doing the same damn job and, sometimes, doing it way better.

I appreciate salary banding.  There are times where I’m not the most competent lass in the room and a colleague will rightfully deserve to make more than I do.  There are times when I’m the competent one and I should rightfully earn more.   All that said, women have been a dominant force in the workplace for a considerable amount of time. Don’t we deserve more than $.81 on the dollar?  Haven’t we earned it?  And why should we ask ourselves what we are doing wrong because we cannot achieve pay parity?

Governor Bev Perdue has proclaimed April 12th as “North Carolina Equal Pay Day.”  I’m not the biggest fan of our Governor and I realize that this is a mostly empty gesture.  But if it sparks debate, if it rouses the rabble, I’m all for it.

Haven’t we, as a society, evolved far enough that people should be compensated based solely on qualifications and performance, as opposed to gender and plumbing?  And why is it that we find this an acceptable practice?  Furthermore, why are we branded with the “feminazi” label for wanting what we rightfully earn?  I’m not asking for conciliatory measures.  I’m merely asking to be treated like a human.

…high on life

How many of us have watched people drunk blog?  Or read drunken writing?  How about reading something written by a woman stoned out of her gourd on paint fumes?

So Jose and his get-fresh-crew (really…his name is Jose.  If your dark mind is going to that place where it makes some sort of stereotypical comment, leave the room now.  I do not want to hear your voice.  Lalalalalalalalalala.) is in the hallway and the living room transforming dull suburban to less dull suburban.  It’s a rip roarin’ good time for them. They’re getting paid.  For me, trapped in my bedroom without food – not so much. Particularly when you factor in my stupid dog’s incessant barking from below.  Makes you want to take off his tags and open the fence gate, I tell you.

Where was I?  Oh.  Right.  Stoned on paint fumes.  :inhales deeply and twirls herself around the bedpost:  Strong aromas and I do not get along.  Perfumes and colognes make me blind with rage.  Cleaning supplies make me cry like a little girl.  The only strong aromas I like are gasoline, skunk and certain foods.  Don’t you want to take me on a date, now?

As if life weren’t freaking enjoyable enough with the hell that is known as spring in The South, I’m no longer safe in my own home.  To facilitate the drying process, I have turned down the AC to a brisk 68 degrees and we have opened the windows.  Paint and pollen! OH.  BOY!  Wasting electricity!  Bonus!!!

My head is spinning, my nose is starting to run, my eyes are weeping and puffy, thoughts are not jelling in my head.  I feel itchy.  My mouth feels furry.  There is nothing to slap. Even if I wanted to hurl a small, annoying animal across the room – I couldn’t.  I cannot see straight.

Even worse.  I have to watch CNN.

Earlier, I was thinking about writing some sincerely sappy piece about being able to get in your time machine and have a do-over. Not a do-over to change the course of your life but a simple do-over so you don’t end up treating really nice people in a less than nice sort of way.  Then the paint high settled in and I find myself feeling unusually not-wistful.  As a matter of fact, I’m feeling quite evil. Fortunately, the paint has rendered my mind to gelatinous goo so I’m fairly harmless.  For now.

Yay!  The painter just opened the door to the bedroom.  My bedroom.  My bedroom where I’m swinging from the bedposts, pecking out this post with my toes.  My bedroom where clothes, books, magazines, pillows and various electronic devices (not those, you dirty boy) are strewn everywhere.  I’m really hoping the nice gentleman doesn’t peek around the corner and see Mount Laundry in the bathroom.  It’s hungry, too.

The meows (as my son calls them) sought shelter in my closet.  Serves me right for leaving the door open.  Now my clothes will be covered in pollen and cat and stink of paint. The only things that will draw the kitties out of hiding are a sack of french fries and the promise that I will send the dog to live on a farm.

So there you have it.  Nonsensical, quasi-intoxicated ramblings assembled with the greatest amount of care for your reading pleasure.  Wishing I would just go back into my head and overthink the ever loving shit out of something, are you?

…july

When you have been friends with someone for a considerable length of time, you can pretty much tell the tone of the discussion the moment someone answers the phone and hears the greeting.  Kate knew to settle in if I called sobbing.  I knew anything beginning with “Aww…Marn” meant my plans for lunch were going to be scuttled in lieu of being a good pal.

It was a blistering hot, sticky July day as July days are in central Carolina.  I grabbed some water, my cigarettes and headed to the back deck.

Kate opened with a story about meeting some guy at brunch with some of her friends. Apparently Eros was at a loss for things to do that day.  They ended up spending the weekend together, in a drug induced fog and having incredible sex.

I couldn’t figure out how a call that opened with “Aww…Marn” would be bad given the above.  Kate and her boyfriend of four years had broken up several months prior and if anyone deserved bacchanalia, it was Kate.

I guess my confusion was fairly evident because Kate paused.  “Marn…we did a lot of drugs.”  Having grown up around drugs, having a husband who works in an industry where drugs are fairly prevalent, it’s pretty hard to draw anything other than an eye roll from me.  In my world drugs are broken into two categories:  that which you can do and that which you cannot do.  The “can-do” category is limited to pot and certain pharmaceuticals.  The “cannot-do” is basically everything else.

I was waiting to hear that she imbibed in blow, her drug of choice for partying.  Alas, no.  She went were you did not go.  She tried meth.  Is it any wonder that the sexy times were incredible?

Further issues contributed to Kate’s angst.  She tells me she behaved like an asshole to her friends.  She tells me this guy has a record and deals.  She tells me she didn’t use any form of protection what-so-ever.

Rather than join the pig-pile, I flatly stated that it was great that she had a fuck-and-run but that’s all it needs to be.  A fuck-and-run.  I told her to delete his name from her phone, get herself to her OB/GYN and move on with life.  It would be her dirty little secret, her lost weekend.  We all have one and for her to be any different is a little unrealistic when you’re speaking of a (then) 38 year old woman.

She squeaked “An AIDs test.”  I shook my head “Are you telling me that you haven’t been tested?”  Bless my friend’s little heart.  She couldn’t handle being a Gen-Xer.

I half-listened to the rest of the phone call.  To be quite blunt, I had no desire to hear about having fantastic sex with a convicted felon.  I really don’t give a frog’s fat ass about the glories of any uppers, methamphetamine being the primary one.  The douchenozzle wrecked her car in the process and, admittedly, I thought – now you know why this guy needs to be relegated to the fuck-and-run bin.

After an hour or so on the phone, I thought we had reached a clear understanding of how to carry forward.  Delete number.  Go to doctor.  Repair car.  Avoid meth.  Am I missing something in the sage-advice-doling department here?  Clearly, I must have been.

Two weeks later, she called me to tell me she had seen him again.

Kate’s folly aside, I wasn’t exactly skipping sans souci through life.  In my world, I was clinging to what little bits of sanity I had remaining in my feeble mind.  In less than a year, I had given birth to a child, I had to take a demotion in order to mother appropriately as my previous job mandated travel, I had the pressures of being the primary breadwinner and master financial planner for this enterprise we call a family.  All this on top of the fact that the better half travels for a living so I was doing this alone, at times.  By the end of June, my nerves were so tattered, holding myself together and getting through the day without breaking down in tears was a mere impossibility.

I thought my advice to Kate was stellar.  Rather than beating her up, rather than validating the peanut gallery of friends of hers in Atlanta, I simply stated that what was done was done and gave her a path for moving forward.  No judgment.  Just support.  Imagine my seething rage to learn that she did not listen to me.

When she called to tell me she had seen him again, I was trying to feed my son dinner after an exhausting day at work.  Dock was on the road so there was no way I could pass the responsibility torch.  As I was covered in pureed green beans and a sweet potato, I was awash in the stupidity of others.  Something I have no patience for (the color combination of pureed green beans and sweet potato does nothing for my complexion).

“Aww…Marn.  He called.  He is upset.  He says he really misses me.  I went to see him.  He makes me happy.”

And with that, the tongue forked, the tone turned harsh and I did not hold back.  “Of course he makes you happy.  I should even go so far as to say that he makes you feel good, right?  THAT’S HIS JOB.  He’s a drug dealer.”

I cannot tell you how long that phone call lasted.  I can say it lasted longer than Milkface’s patience for the high chair. I can tell you that we both had food in our hair at the end and the floor was a right mess.

Kate’s taste in men has always been beyond the pale.  There were only two suitors that I remotely liked and one didn’t even work.  It was a fine line for me to walk as I had long suspected that neither she nor my husband liked each other very much.  There was always this underlying tension of “you’re not good enough for Marn…” which saddened me.

I tried explaining the importance of a common value-set.  While entirely unfair, life has us in certain stations and mixing doesn’t always result in the most beneficial of outcomes.  Why my brilliant, beautiful and gentle best friend ended up with these less-than-desirables wasn’t lost on me.  She was a healer.  She took in stray animals.  She took in stray men.

So, covered in food with a whining baby as my soundtrack, I listened to Kate talk through her thoughts.  He treated her well.  The sex was great.  He’s a nice man.  Blah.  Blah.  Blah.

The end of the call was very tense.  I had thrown down the gauntlet saying “No more.  There will be no more.”    She said she knew better, that it was over, that she dreaded being bored and alone but knew that I was right.  The madness needed to cease immediately.

…chapter one

Alas, it was bound to rear its ugly head at some point.  Why not write when provoked? And why not dump as many clichés as humanly possible into the mix while I’m at it.

On 20 December 2010 at 17.26 my world metaphorically collapsed.  With the preview of one email, it was as if the roof fell upon me, 9 million tons of cement following.  I clearly remember processing the following from my pop up email alert:  Tom.  Daughter.  Kate. Dead.

I cannot cogently describe the next few hours of my life.  There was a phone call placed to Kate’s parents.  I was standing on the front stoop, in the cold, shitty wintry weather, smoking a cigarette.  I remember catching a glimpse of my reflection in the storm door.  I was smiling but it was that forced smile that I make whenever I’m on the phone.  I remember pulling on my hair.  I remember hearing the words and it reminded me of my first day in Sweden – a whole lot of gibberish that I would never understand.  I remember answering questions.  Asking questions.  I remember saying good bye.

I think I sent Magnus the email from Kate’s parents but without going back and looking, I don’t know when.

Then, somehow, I ended up in our dining room, near the door to the kitchen.  There were no lights on as the sun had set not too long before.  I stood in the dark shaking and gasping for air.  I remember Dock and Milkface coming home from work and school respectively.  Barely above a whisper, I said the unthinkable “Kate is dead.”  I remember being led to the living room and put on the sofa only to spring back up and run outside because I didn’t want my child to see me upset.  This time it was the back porch, a cigarette and my red pea coat.

For the life of me, I wish I remembered which outfit I was wearing.  By Jewish law, you’re supposed to rend your clothes.  Not by any stretch am I a good Jew or an observant Jew but I like the tradition of destroying the outfit you were wearing when the world as you knew it ended.  It’s a simple, cathartic rite.  To this day I eye the laundry pile, suspiciously, wondering which shirt was on my back. Kate would have said “the shirt is laughing at you.”

December 20th was a Monday.  I have little recall of how I got through the week.  Sparky, Monica and DeeDee brought food and booze.  I reached out to dear friends for some direly needed support.  I managed to keep focused on work and preparations for Christmas.  The first week was surprisingly easy.  I suppose that is the blessing of shock.

Rather than make our half-assed version of the julbord, I had Dock pick up a ham and I threw some crab cakes in the oven.  As I was puttering around the kitchen, I started making more and more food.  I par-boiled asparagus and let them bathe in a light olive oil glaze with lemon juice.  I think I even made bread.  I may have made boiled potatoes.  Daddy came and left.  Presents were opened.  I sat on the sofa and stared.

I tried keeping my shit together at work the following week.  Sadly, it all became too much and I ended up taking time off.  I wasn’t sleeping.  I was crying at the drop of the hat and if I could have figured out a way to get out of my own skin without making a bloody mess, I would have.

The only thing in my favor was self-medication.  As my back was giving me a world of trouble, I had various forms of painkillers at my disposal.  One can find a good amount of peace in an opiate induced fog.  Unfortunately, the calm was temporary.  At some point, notifications would be made and the floodgate of questions would open.  After all, it’s not every day that an otherwise healthy and happy 39 year old woman ends up dead.  Even if most deaths come without warning, this one was sure to jar.  And jar it did.

A death around Christmas is unusually cruel and not for the obvious reason.  A death around Christmas causes all of us to look around the room and wonder who may not be in their rightful place next year.  A death around Christmas provokes feeling of survivor’s remorse.  A death around Christmas makes you feel like absolute hell knowing that someone’s parents are not opening presents with their children or toasting a good meal with everyone present and account for.

From time to time, I’m going to chronicle my journey.  My journey with Kate who is closer to me than any other creature on the planet.  My journey of losing her and my attempts to build a life without someone who played such a critical role in my existence. While certainly therapeutic for me, I hope people will be interested in the tale of two girls growing into women and a very special friendship/sister hood.  These installments will may not always be life-affirming.  They’re certainly not novel.  But, for me, they are necessary.

…political metamorphosis

Growing up on the periphery of affluence, I was keenly interested and slightly bewitched by the intoxicating words of conservative icon William F Buckley.  Like any good steward of the Republican Party (I was a donor at the age of 15), I would eagerly await the arrival of The Dartmouth Review.  I read Ayn Rand.   When Bush the Elder was installed in office, I was so upset by the end of Reagan-era politics that my mother let me take the day off from school so I would be free to weep and mourn. I knew no one could ever be the steward of the American dream the way Reagan was.

This makes sense.  Really.  Everyone in Montgomery County is a Republican.  Never mind that a Montgomery County Republican is basically like a Dixiecrat in the sense that neither are completely true to the party platform.  If you lived in Montgomery County, were a business owner, had any hope to network or had a burning desire to have speeding tickets fixed, you registered Republican.  Even my father, a latent Marxist, was a registered Republican as he owned his own business.

Being among the haves in a world of have-nots, it’s very easy to look around at your piles of stuff and bags of money and say, “I worked for this.  It should be mine.  I should not have to share.”  It’s also very easy to think that the government serves no role in helping people since you are not naturally exposed to those who need help.  They are the people by the train tracks; the side show.  The cautionary tale of what can happen if you dare not work yourself to the bone.  Industry is key.  What’s mine is mine and what’s yours…I will eventually take because my money can buy more than your money.

Furthermore, I was hell bent on not falling victim to higher academia.  There was no possible way I would allow myself to shift left in college.  I would dig my heels in and buck the trend.  Come 1996, I was still raging against the machine.  I found Clinton to be a loathsome, suspicious creature even though he was a complete Centrist and more of a big business-dick sucking conservative than his successor, Bush the Lesser (which, when you consider the no-bid contracting of the War on Terror™, says a great deal about Clinton’s hard-on for Corporate America).

Shortly after my move to North Carolina, my father and I were having a heated discussion about politics, as is our wont.  Before I could counter any of my father’s arguments, the frying pan of reality knocked me upside my head.  There would be no possible way that I would ever amass the wealth that it takes to really benefit from the conservative ideal that is American politics.  Without knocking over a string of liquor stores or winning the lottery, I will have to rely on the government at some point in my life.  Further scrambling my brains and leaving me at a loss for an ideology to keep me warm at night was coming to terms with the concept that government, as a whole, isn’t inherently evil. Government wasn’t going to sneak into my room in the middle of the night and steal my long-gone virtue.  Government had no designs for any potential Kang scion.  Financially, I would never be in that teeny segment of society that would amass so much wealth that taxation would be a significant issue.  The odious threat of an estate tax is utterly laughable to most of us, myself included.

In the latter part of 1999, I plucked the voter registration card from my wallet, noted the change of my legal name and switched parties.  Silly as it may seem, it was a pretty significant event.  With the tick of a box, I flushed my former ideology, my former value set, down the toilet and became the unthinkable – a Democrat.  A fence-sitting, right leaning Democrat, but a Democrat none-the-less.  If only my deranged but liberal mother could see me now.

Alas, the transition had only begun.  As years wore on, I found myself leaning further and further to the left until I became the scourge of modern American society – a Social Democrat.  The death knell for any conservative leanings sounded the moment I stepped foot in the door of a public hospital as an employee.  Surrounded by critically ill, hard working people who did not have access to care on account of being a member of the working poor, I recoiled in horror.  On a far too frequent basis, I saw amputees who lost a limb due to unmanaged diabetes.  I saw brain tumors of mind-boggling size because we treated the worst of the infirmed and under-insured.  One manager summed it up perfectly:  “When I worked in private health care our (MR) scans were boring.  People who have the resources to take care of themselves are far less remarkable than those who cannot.”

Otherwise upstanding citizens with whom any of us would break bread are not only fighting for their lives – they are being victimized by a society that places little value on the living.  We live in a world where willingly assisting your neighbor can only occur via charitable contributions to bloated non-profits/not-for profits or religious organizations. We live in a society that places a value on the unborn but has neither the interest nor the inclination to care for the child once it is born.  To save the almighty dollar, we take food from the mouths of children, care from the infirmed, and as if that wasn’t indignity enough, we point and call them “welfare queens” or “entitlement mongers” in the process.  We assassinate their characters because that’s what we do best when we don’t want to accept the fact that we are one traumatic event removed from a similar fate.

There are parallels to greater woes in this moral.  We ardently refuse to take care of our infrastructure, in the physical sense (roads, bridges, electrical grid, etc) or in the human form.  As a society, we neglect everything until the worst case scenario occurs and then spend more time pointing fingers than proactively engaging in methodologies that would prevent the draconian.  We are a society that lives on borrowed money, borrowed time and unfounded hope.  Rather than confronting the painful, rather than assuming responsibility and understanding that objectivism and libertarianism are merely ways to validate our inner, selfish beast, we cast the poor as our much needed bogeyman. It seems Americans cannot live without having to fight some form of lecherous evil.

One needs look no further than the current budget quagmire and the potential shuttering of the Federal government to see how dysfunctional and lacking in compassion we are.  Rather than investing in the future, we steal from it.  Rather than protecting our most precious resource, the human being, we discard that concept in favor of protecting a commodity.  Rather than understanding that the human being is a critical component in society, that education and intelligence is the most important commodity we have, we slip in global standings in science and mathematics at an incomprehensibly alarming pace.  And we do this why?  Because what’s mine is mine and what’s yours can potentially be mine.

There are so many levels of wrong in this world, so many things humans should be ashamed of.  None is more horrifying than being a willing participant in the downward spiral of our society, though.  None is more damaging than enabling the process.  And yet, if you do point this out, you’re dismissed as the elite, mystical intelligentsia.  That’s right – we live in a place where being informed is considered bad, and “smart” is used as an epithet.

I may very well go to an early grave as our health care system is cannibalized to allow for the re-allocation of funding to interests that aren’t really our best, at the hands of scientists who care more about revenue and patents than the people they purport to care for.  At least I will shuffle off this mortal coil knowing that I tried to change things for the better.  And I will do so as a liberal.

…handicapped parking spaces

No…it’s not what you think it’s going to be.

Our dear finned friend, Shark, requested a rant as my first post.  Five minutes ago, I could have waxed moronic about how much I loathe WordPress, how CSS can fuck off and die until I re-read my handy-dandy manual and railed against fonts.  Alas, I wasn’t in touch with my inner hate so I have to draw on an experience from Monday.

Years ago, my father decided to arbitrarily launch his bad self through his dashboard window.  Six months of bed-ridden recovery later, he received his shiny, new hip. Bionic daddy – I has one!  He moves around very well with the exception of a drop foot that can hinder his mobility from time to time.  Even with this challenge, he has never filed for a handicap parking permit.

As I type this very post, my spine is deteriorating.  The days where I cannot walk are few and far between but they are, without a doubt, hell.  I will not file for a handicap parking permit.

You see…even those with mobility issues, be it intermittent or constant, reserve these precious spaces for those who truly need them.

The other day I had to loot the ATM.  Kang’s Coiffure House requests that all tips for hairdressers be remitted in cash.  I don’t carry cash.  Ever.  Not wanting to piss off the woman who could ruin my world for a very long time, I dragged myself to the ATM (or MAC machine for the Philadelphians).  Imagine my surprise when I notice a spry, 20-something pull into the *only* handicapped parking space as I was retrieving my cabbage.

Not one to bite her forked tongue, I turned around, looked the asshat directly in the eye and…

Kang:  Excuse me, sir.  Are you handicapped?  I didn’t see your placard.

Asshat:  No.  No I’m not.

Kang:  Would you like to be?

Asshat:  :stammers:  Ermmmm…

Kang:  :points at car:  Really.  So…you’re not handicapped and you’re parking where?  You’re parking in a spot for the handicapped when there is a standard parking space available – right next to you. That’s stupid.  Just stupid.

Asshat:  No.  You are.  (really – this is the level of discourse)

Kang:  No.  I’m not stupid.  I’m not the one wearing a Wal-Mart name tag.

If there is one thing that will drive me to the brink of causing a bar fight with a broken bottle, pissing on the meek is at the top of my list of things that enrage me.  Unless it is a matter of life or death, there is no reason to overlook common consideration for the sake of convenience.  None.  Ever.

For whatever reason, I find myself absolutely fearless when it comes to douchebaggery. I realize that I may very well be on the receiving end of a slap or worse, yet that critical filter that keeps people from confronting others simply does not exist in my world.

If you treat others poorly and I bear witness to it, I’m going to say something.  That’s just the way I roll.

…and she’s back!

Do I spring into the room with a flourish to announce my return or should I simply lay in wait in see what develops?  Such critical decisions, yes?

Shortly before the Kanglet arrived, I decided to drive the knife through the heart of KangWorld.  I’m still a bit concerned about exposure since I’m all mom-like now and thus very protective of my real life persona but staying quiet is just.  killing.  me.  There is far too much noise in my noggin, far too many experiences that need to be catalogued and documented for all perpetuity, far too many words begging to be formed into the meatball that is one of my musings.

/me raises tiny fist and says “I wish I knew how to quit you!”

So, I’m back with a bucketful of new experiences to share, a passel of jumbled thoughts and the visceral need to scribble down everything.  Hopefully, I will be able to deliver more than intermittent profundity and random quirky observations.