Pink Gold

Kind Sir,

Occasionally I suffer from pressure and discomfort associated with gas.
Of that, I am not ashamed.

As you are now aware, I ensure that no one else is affected by my gastro-intestinal distress by taking ant-acid tablets, which I think I accidentally dropped on the floor at your house.

What you may not realize is that Extra Strength Cherry-Crème Chewable Gas-X does not grow on trees.

I know you are apprehensive about confronting me regarding this loss because you are probably very stoned and have discovered that Cherry Gas-X is extremely delicious. Nevertheless, it would mean a lot to me if you would return my 18 tablet solution to mild discomfort so that I can continue my pursuit of gas-free lifestyle.

Yours,

Lady at Large

I don’t expect you to read my blog. Just please, don’t shit in my mouth.

Hey there you. It’s been real. 

We are both professionals, so needless to say, it was fun and refreshing to find someone with whom I could drink an entire bottle of Seagram’s with and make jokes about anal fisting until midnight on a Wednesday.

Nevertheless, I think it would be fair to say that we are in two different places. Rather, I don’t have a clue where you are, but I can tell I’m somewhere very different.

You typically need to eat mushrooms to get in touch with your feelings, so you are probably either in a state park tripping balls and singing Slim Shady tunes alone while you jerk off, or convincing some other woman that you are intelligent and interesting. 

In reality, (where I consider myself,) you are an emotional desert with an irreversible small penis complex. Against my better judgment, I was prepared to deal with both of those issues. 

But I can’t deal with them if you don’t return my text messages. I don’t expect much from anyone. And I certainly don’t expect you to pay for everything, open doors for me or go in for a household membership to NPR.

It’s not hard. Furthermore; it is a universally accepted truth that not responding to a text message is the unspoken equivalent of shitting in someones mouth.

I don’t expect much. But please, spare me this. I’m a lady. 

Silently Not Judging

While I have wavered on my commitment to drinking water, I do continue to pursue my commitment to being nonjudgmental. To say the least; it’s been difficult to not judge. Instead, I am silently not judging and keeping a running list of things I have to be nonjudgmental about.

-             -Drinking beers and getting on that 300-pound scooter. Really? Lady, you live around the corner. You could have walked to the bar.
-       The coffee shop that is too self-righteous and dogmatic in it’s commitment to organic fare to carry sugar substitutes
-       People jogging in 20 degree weather with wind gusts of up to 30 MPH, generally
-       Addiction to LOST
-       Fear of failure
-       Books about cats
-   The restorative, healing, and otherwise beneficial qualities of Cambucha

      -    Vegan meatloaf

      -     Webinars

And for now. I am done. 

With each glance and every little movement, you show it

“Good morning, God bless you!”
This morning, the (presumed) homeless guy sitting on the stoop of someone else’s home was emphatically greeting everyone that passed with the same benediction. I replied with a half-assed “good morning” and a sad excuse for a smile, and was treated to a second helping of “Good morning, God bless you!” I had expected him to ask for any part of a dollar.

Usually, I have a seemingly random song stuck in my head for the bulk of the walk to work. Yesterday was the theme to the Mary Tyler Moore Show. Tuesday was John Parr, “St. Elmo’s Fire (Man in Motion).” Monday I can’t remember. Today was “Good morning, God bless you!” The phrase echoed. It’s a 32-minute walk.

I was thankful. Anything to rid myself of the imagery of last night’s dream, in which I was having sex with a much older co-worker in a greenhouse and my nephews kept barging in and threatening to tell my sister, then it started raining from the ceiling, then the mudslide hit. “Good morning, God bless you!”

By the time I got to work, I wanted to greet all of my coworkers with “Good morning, God bless you!” I don’t really believe in god, at least not the kind that blesses people whenever they want. Against my better judgment, I chose to keep the phrase to myself. The religious might think I was mocking them; the non-religious might think I had lost it. One or two people may have smiled.

Instead of going directly to my deskicle and feigning work until mealtime, I walked back to where some coworkers were gabbing about last night’s gala to which I was not invited (no hard feelings) and stood there with a goofy grin. “What’s with you?” they asked. My mouth may have said “Fuck off, a guy’s allowed to be in a good mood from time to time,” but the rest of my face was saying “Good morning, God bless you!”

Last Sunday while daytime drinking, I’m pretty sure I merely expressed a mild curiosity in reading this spin-off Hallmarks blog, yet the Lady of the Blog sent me an invitation to contribute. Like KIG, I assumed this was an accident. The title implies this is a blog for those who are Ladies or have insights into the identifying traits of Ladies and/or the mistakes they make. The palette suggests it’s for people who like pink. I can’t empathize with any of that. I do know that I often lack sound judgment and typically learn by stumbling.

Two years and eight months ago, I was having a particularly angry walk to work. I was down on the city. I had had it with angry car horns, angry bicycles flipping off cars, angry pedestrians flipping off bicycles. I gave up on the people of Philadelphia. I wanted to move. “Why is everyone so angry?” The thought circled like a hungry shark. Walking toward me was a tiny man, hobbled by age. “Nobody cares about anybody,” I thought. He was wearing a wool fedora in summer, shuffling along slowly, whistling. “People in this town don’t share the sidewalk.” He was from Mexico, maybe Colombia, possibly Peru. “My own neighbors don’t acknowledge each other on the street.” As the old man neared I could see the wrinkles carved by many decades of either smiling or squinting. I had never seen this man before in my life. As we passed, he looked me in the eye and spoke in a delightfully thick accent. “Hello, my friend, how are you?”

Productivity & Integrity

I referenced productivity earlier in the year and having giving serious thought to the best use of my time and how to share the best practices in productivity. To date, I still think the best way one can assure that one is productive is to avoid unproductive behavior. Unproductive behavior includes but is not limited to: speculating about the health of other peoples’ marriages, webinars and flossing. Sometimes, if I get behind because I’ve been caught up in unproductive behavior I make it up to the universe by stealing lampshades from Kmart. 

Habit 3. Putting First Things First

Habit 3: Putting First Things First is about priorities. To clarify Habit 3 Covey states, “First things do not belong second and second things do not belong first. “ 

To engage in this principle, I spent 7 dollars on a jar of “Hooters” brand “Wing Sauce” for the privilege of keeping it in the office refrigerator with a note on the lid that said, “DO NOT DISCARD.” Then, I sent a shaming email to the entire staff.

This is what Covey would describe as a Quadrant II activity – one that is Important to maintaining the P/PC balance  (production/production capability) and contributes to the holistic health of the individual. Quadrant II activities include time spent with friends and family, self-care, prayer, planning, rest, ruthless acts of revenge and office pranks.

Capoiera

Against my better judgment I signed up for “Introduction to Capoiera.” There were three people in my class. (Well, four if you count the 5-year-old who kicked my ass.) His dad, another member of the class, was Brazilian, a martial artist and clearly had some previous experience as a Capoiera fighter. The other was a professional break-dancer, who admitted that she had not taken Capoiera in a few years. And even then, “It was a totally different style and mostly footwork.” The instructor was a buff Afro-Brazilian Capoiera fighter and consummate sadist.

He began the class, not by introducing himself, but by dropping to the floor and doing a push-up. “See this?”

"Yes."

“Well you’re gonna get real familiar with it in this class.”

I consider my own level of athleticism to be at least moderate to above average. Well, frankly, I consider myself totally ripped, but that’s another story.

I managed through the first 20 minutes fairly pleased with myself. I could do push-ups and jumping jacks and I could almost pull off a cartwheel.

After our warm-up, the instructor effortlessly guided my peers something like ground waltz that evolved into several cartwheels and a kick in the air. I tried to do another cartwheel without throwing up but I seemed unfairly bound by gravity. My friend in kindergarten did three cartwheels in a row and clapped for me each time I fell to the floor.

The class moves became more and more acrobatic as I watched from the corner.

It is rare that one has the opportunity to bask in the strength and agility of others so completely while upside down and staring in a mirror at one’s own trembling backside.

The good news is that humility is a virtue-one that can be acquired through this very lens.

And so, I am virtuous.