RATED

I devised a terrific concept for this blog.

A post rating system.

Before you see a movie you know what it's rated, and if you're the kind that uses ratings as a part of your decision-making process, you use the rating to determine your date-night plans. I have decided to rate my blog posts so you know what you're committing yourself to when starting to read or if it's even a train you should be riding. The idea may not be particularly novel, but I don't read any blogs aside from mine and yours, so how would I know if rating is all the rage? I've not a clue how long this folly will engage me and therefore last, but for now I'm quite fond of the concept.

The rating system goes as follows:

H • Harmless • Posts rated 'Harmless' won't offend a soul. They're benign. They may be uplifting. They may be uncharacteristically upbeat. They won't incite you to shake your noggin or widen your peepers. They could be quite nice.

S • Saucy • Posts rated 'Saucy' are intellectually, emotionally, and/or socially engaging, likely tinged with sarcasm and/or cynicism but aren't overly pessimistic. These posts aren't harsh enough to necessitate a B rating, for they have a wider appeal, but they may contain a certain amount of shock value and raise an eyebrow or drop a jaw. Posts can earn a 'Saucy' rating for questionable, embarrassing, or subversive subject matter as well even if subject matter is presented optimistically and without curse words.

B • Bitchy • Posts rated 'Bitchy' are very likely to offend or unnerve. They may be inflammatory or outright angering. They are cynical, negative, or sarcastic or all of the above combined, producing a conflagration sure to incite rebuke, reproach, or reverberating shouts for encore.

I • Insipid • Posts rated 'Insipid' aren't worth reading at all. Just skip over them. They may have been the child of intellectual exercise, crafted merely for the author's entertainment, a filler post, or just plain stupid.

You may not agree with the rating I designate a post, but don't tell me you've never seen a PG-13 movie that you thought should have been granted an R rating instead. Sometimes you just aren't of the majority.

If the rating I apply doesn't jive with your assessment of the post, go ahead and say so. (Like you needed my encouragement.) I do accept comments of all kinds, nasty, nice, or negligible.

FROM THE LAND OF ALL TOO OFTEN

Banana yellow, to be precise. A banana yellow Chevy Aveo with duct tape holding the hatch shut.

Traffic yesterday morning was, well, as traffic often is, in need of Sudafed. And, as is often the case, the lanes took turns letting up. And, as never seems to be the case, I was in the lucky lane. I moved with traffic--not too fast, not too slow, and steadily--as car after car migrated down McCarran to the freeway.

Suddenly, a teeny beep invaded my foggy awareness, and from the corner of my right eye I glimpsed a man in the less fortunate lane glaring at me. A big man, very fat, with gray hair and a sweatervest, buckled into a limping, banana yellow Chevy Aveo.

Apparently the less-than-gentle man had been endevoring to enter the lane of privilege, and I hadn't heeded his turn signal, making way for the little yellow nose trying to poke out of line. I simply hadn't seen him. He got grumpy with me for not letting him in when I didn't even purposefully snub him; I hadn't noticed his need until he incited his rollerskate to express indignation with a horn of which anyone over the age of eighteen should be embarrassed.

I didn't notice him, for I was burried in a day already rotten by 8:45AM and engaged in scarfing a therapeutic candybar.

He didn't know that when I was dressing that morning I was so bewildered and frustrated at how bloated I was that I ripped off a little button-down shirt, watching the buttons pop off and fly every which way, and then hurled the destroyed top across the bathroom. The old man in the sweet banana ride didn't see the six pairs of black pumps I'd kicked off and left throughout the bedroom, bathroom, hallway, and closet. He didn't see that when I was clawing open a brand new box of tampons from under the sink I ripped the carboard with such force that little biodegradable tubes encased in green paper went flying all over the bathroom, some landing in the tub, some on the floor, some in my sink, and I didn't pick them up before leaving the house.

Ignoring his ire, I shook my head and didn't let off the gas, thinking, Dude, you're a pile of adiposity in a teeny banana car with an embarrassing toot of a horn, and I'm supposed to take you seriously? Not even on a good day, mister, and today's a rotten one.

WHIT WITH A SIDE OF WIT

Could it be her readership as a whole or just those who comment that exist without a sense of humor?

My sister, Whitney—the Rookie Cookie herself, is a barrel of laughs. A darn funny broad. In person and online. Her blog boasts gems that make me giggle when I recall them; and for me to recall them at all, let alone laugh upon recollection, is noteworthy. It's not every day. Not every post. But when she busts it out, the goods are good.

And all that splendor is wasted on her audience.

Just last week when describing her Greatest Guacamole Ever experience she wrote:

. . . The fresh ingredients are good all on their own, but when they hook up, they have the hottest, sexiest one night stand EVER.

Clever and just naughty enough. (Bear in mind that the bulk of her readership is a bunch of prudish mommies.)

The way I see it: Whitney served up a laugh with a recipe chaser—not the other way around, but everyone who deposited something for her to read skipped right over the tryst only making mention of the gloppy, green goo. They neglected to leave juvenile e-laughs, compliment her on a sordid but witty metaphor, or at least scold her for a vile comparison. Nothing! I was the only person who said a word about her concoction’s sex appeal. That sickens me. Much like I mourn withering potential, I hate to see a good guffaw go unshared.

I’m quite sure that had I written the same one night stand one-liner on this blog, two or three of you would have at least indicated its existence it in some way. But Whit is better at that kind of thing than I am—the saucy metaphor. I’m certainly more acerbic, but she can be a little raunchier. We work as a top-notch team when a blogging bump, set, spike! is in order, but she doesn’t need me to produce pearls.

And there they lay at the feet of swine.

It burns me up.

Is this Guac Incident isolated? Absolutely not. It happens time and time again. For example, when Rookie whipped up some body scrub and compared the wet sticky experience to a porno The Bird was the only reader to respond. Completely pathetic. At least rebuke the dame!

More often than not, the comments I peruse on the Rookie blog contain crumbs like, Oh, I made this last week and it was incredible! or I’m so making this tomorrow night! I can’t wait to get cooking! or Peach season is my favorite time of year; thanks for giving me a way to use up all the treasures from my trees! (Okay, that one wouldn’t have included a semi-colon.)

Yes, good people—yes!—my sister writes a food blog, but a good portion of the people who show up do so to read her little life-bits: the things Jack says, what she does in her spare time, her cooking anecdotes. You like the recipes but show up for the show.

I'd be more receptive to the always-trite comments if all she posted on the blog were recipes; but she leaves wit as well, and it gets ignored.

My blog amasses higher-quality comments than hers does. The comments you leave on my Remarks are much more substantial; they're actually worth reading. A few recent examples of the many:

Julie: She shared a tale that caught my husband's attention. And actually caused me to utter, Wow while reading.


Tom: Well, Tom never fails to provide the kind of entertainment people charge for. Do yourselves a favor and hunt through my past posts for bits of Tom. With comments like this, who needs a USA Today app?

Jessica: Always insightful. She left me some words to consider and received a big fat comment as response. I am a responder; leave a comment that causes thought or emotion, and, providing I have the necessary time (a commodity there seems to be less and less of these days), I'll get back to you.

Errin: She let me in on a little introspection. I couldn't be more flattered. And she granted the gift of gag.

Erica: The Ask-n-Gab comments are always a party. I wish I had more time to snatch a few to feature. And when Erica answered this question, she enriched my day with an image of Grover that I'll never be able to eschew.

Good grief. Gold, I'm sayin'. Stand-alone posts within their own right. Why doesn’t Whitney get the same thing? She’s smart. She's funny. And she puts a ton of time into this blogging nonsense. She deserves better.

Now, Dear Remarks Reader, think not that you must leave a hearty, well-composed, life-altering comment each time you have something to say. My aim here is to point out that my blog is rife with great responses while my sister's blog is gifted with great comments like these only once every other month. (And generally you or I left them.) Also, I plead with you not to assume that what I've posted here are the only Remarks comments worth repeating. It's late. I'm tired, and a small sampling of the gifts I get is going to have to do.

I am thoroughly flattered that you readers I have never met, people with whom I've never lunched, will take the time to toss me engaging responses like the lengthy ones above that serve as fodder for a dialogue. It's as rare as a worthwhile comment on Whitney's blog that I receive a comment I scan and think, Well why the heck did you leave that? It was a total waste of Internet. But I constantly find myself mired in thoughts like that when I read the typewritten banalies visitors leave on my sister's blog.

You could say that Whit's e-space is not my space, thus I ought maintain apathy toward the droppings readers leave behind; but she's my sister, her humor is too entertaining to be ignored, and, well, I do feel a sense of ownership over that blog—yeah, I'm only in charge of the looks, but it's an investment nevertheless.

If you're a Rookie reader, for me—forget about her, please react and respond to the pearls she leaves with the plums. There's stuff there that's just too tasty to get tossed with the pits.

•••

The disclaimer you knew had to follow: I didn't tell Rookie I was writing this. She takes no issue with her readers. She actually likes them quite a bit and has gone so far as to call them her homies. (Don't worry, her husband has answered the call to mock her for that.) Thus the above lambasting was without permission. If you find offense, don't blame her. Blame me. I take a nefarious sort of pride in the fact that I have the ability to agitate.

AN APPLE ALL DAY

You are all too aware of my little love affair with all things Apple. And I've made mention more than once that I'm not the only one in the house who is fond of the e-fruit. Much like I felt that we knew each other too well for me to keep the anti-depressant a secret, I feel that you deserve the real story about the Romo Apple Affair.


See, I may love Mac, but mister loves it more.

You may wonder how such a thing can be definitively determined. On this one it's simple. He actually works at the Apple store. That's his job.

I (and every other spouse of an Apple employee) am attached to one of the few people on Earth that possess true ardor for their day-to-day. You'd be surprised how delightfully influential that is on a marriage. I'm sure that more than one of you are married to or dating someone who loathes their work, so you know the tole it takes. And--saints be praised--currently, that's not a tole we pay.

Each day, my husband comes home from work happy. The Apple environment is light, the brand itself is hip, the people he works with are unique, and the reason he wanted the job in the first place is that he's passionate about the products. In so many areas of our lives technology is unavoidable, and 'round here we believe that if you're going to interact with computers, phones, TVs, mp3 players, etc., you should enjoy the experience and forget what it's like to yell at your PC.

My fellow doesn't have to wear slacks or a tie to work. He heads out the door in jeans, sneaks, and a blinding turquoise Apple t-shirt that reads, I could talk about this stuff for hours. And fortunately, the shirt isn't kidding, for it's where the man spends many hours.

And I'll be monkey's uncle if the dude doesn't come home smiling.

AIR LUDDITE

When was the last time you saw one of these babies? An entire airplane of travelers outfitted with an iPod or other mp3 player each and this fella brings his portable CD player.


When walking onto the plane, I was balancing my laptop in one paw, finishing an email, via hunt-and-peck, with the free hand. Once on the plane, typing all the while, I found and dropped into my aisle seat, a chair adjacent to the gentleman pictured above and his traveling companion, a woman with whom I could not figure out their connection. She wore a wedding band. He did not. I generously thought that perhaps he lost his and hadn't yet purchased a new one. However, they didn't speak as familiarly as spouses do. Perhaps a new affair? Perhaps coworkers? Perhaps siblings? Just good friends? He held her hand. None of the above, I don't think. They started talking about association with people that sounded like they could have been grandkids. Maybe just a weird marriage . . . After all, in the corner of the photo you can see that the fifty-something woman is reading a graphic novel, and in my inherent snobbery I think graphic novels are bizarre and would be embarrassed to be seen reading one (so if ever I do start reading them, know that I'm doing in the closet and won't be confessing that little tidbit to you).

Anyhow, when I sat down and balanced my computer on my knees to respond to just one more email before I lost the WiFi signal, I overheard the woman say, There's technology all around you, Frank. You going to survive?

He grumbled something I didn't understand, and I thought, What a loon. It can't be that for the first time in my life I'm in proximity of my first small scale, authentic luddite can it? I must be mistaken. I thought they were a myth. (I would like that you not think me patronizing for linking you to the definition of luddite; it's not the most common of words and I thought if you weren't already in the loop, perhaps you'd like to be.)

But then, an hour or so into the 5-hour flight, the dude rummaged through his bag and produced a very stinky sandwich and a Discman. So I suppose technological opponents aren't modern-day unicorns; they're just an odd endangered species.

Pity the folks traveling long distances near me. For I will eavesdrop on their conversations, mentally critique their person and choices, and when I reach true hapless boredom I will break out my phone and secretly snap their picture to mock on my blog.

SPECIALTY BLAND

I mentioned that the cause of my being bound in New Jersey for a few weeks was training for a new job. In the pharma hierarchy the new job was a promotion. According to my business card, I'm now a Specialty Sales Professional, whereas before I was just a Sales Professional. That extra word may not seem like much of a difference, but it does impact my day in that the sales dialogues I initiate should be more clinically focused and I no longer call on Primary Care offices, instead spending my time calling solely on specialized practitioners.

Why I am I telling you this? Why bring up the promotion? Certainly not to toot my own horn--the amount of work that came with this shift means I have nothing else in my life; the job is more complicated than my last and I feel like I'm drowning at times (in fairness to me, the first 9 months or so of a new drug job are always intense to the point of self-abnegation). I'm telling you about my transition to Specialty because though being offered the job was an incredibly flattering vote of confidence in my intellect and ability to sell, it also means I'm ugly.

Oh, okay--not ugly, but certainly a few rungs down on the Looks Ladder.

Though I have some very, very good-looking Specialty counterparts, I've learned that for the most part the Specialty sales reps are not as attractive as their Primary Care counterparts. Just recently, at this out-of-town training, I noted that it was a piece of cake to glance at a group of conversing sales reps and determine whether they were there to be trained as Specialty reps or Primary Care professionals.

The Primary Care reps are more hip in their work uniforms, more svelte, often blond, and blessed with better faces. In Specialty--and again, I must stress that some of my cohorts in this bit of the business are breathtakingly attractive--we are older, more dowdy, and, essentially, less hot. So although we are supposedly endowed with more prestige and prettier paychecks our view from the mirror isn't as pleasurable.

I'm not saying that we Specialty reps are especially heinous, just that the Primary Care reps are a whole lot better looking and more fashionable. They make me feel old and frumpy.

Hip Hip Hooray for my brains and guts. Pity party for the truth of my outer-self.

CAFFEINATED CONSEQUENCES

It's 3:55AM.

I used to be one of those people with more diet soda in their veins than blood. "Used to be" indicates that such was and is no longer the case. And it isn't. About a year ago I stopped buying diet soda at the grocery store, quit asking waitresses for "whatever diet you've got" when asked what I'd selected to slurp, and no longer made gas stations a regular pit stop for anything but auto fuel. My skin got better. I had to pee less frequently. Water became more potent.

What I mean by water increasing its potency: When tired, when really dragging, rather than sucking diet soda, I now turn to actual hydration to get me through. You'd be surprised how effective it is.

I travel a lot (too much), and because I live in the Reno area I am always slapped with an early, early initial flight taking me to whatever airport actually flies direct to my destination--even if my destination is no further than San Diego or Irvine.

When I have to arise at 3AM to be on time for my departure when I whacked the feathers only three hours before (I am an imbecile when it comes to meetings; I procrastinate the prework I have to execute and then find myself up cramming almost all of the night before), the fatigue is incredible. Caffeine seems like a reasonable boost for such situations, but--believe it or not--for my body, it's not necessary. A Clif bar and proper hydration when I get past security and can snag a liter of water does the trick. I learned that caffeine isn't the silver bullet I thought it was and was an unnecessary commodity in my day to day.

However, I like diet soda. I'm aware that, for a of myriad reasons, it's absolutely no good for the body I try to keep healthy, but I figure an inappropriate consumption of whatever suits me here and there isn't going to kill me quite yet. So over the last month I've had a couple diet sodas. Not in restaurants. Not purchased for the house. Not in a way that's going to reenter my existence as a vice. Just a couple here and theres.

Last night was one of the here and theres. Yesterday morning, The Husband went far beyond the call of marriage and labored in my storage unit. (No, not our storage unit. Mine. For work. It houses all my samples, clinical study reprints, patient education, drug trays, etc.--it's a climate controlled place to house my work paraphernalia. Most drug reps have one.) Up until yesterday morning my storage unit was a pit. It still contained a mountain of trash from the job I left six months ago, segregated from tidy stacks of my new job's samples plus box upon box of clinical reprints that I swear weigh 50 lbs. each.

The Husband ferried gorilla racks to my unit, donned his work gloves, assembled the racks, and hauled all the trash to his car for dumpster-deposit while I slogged through my monthly sample inventory and separated out all the clinicals by product on my new racks. Because spending time in my storage unit invariably leaves me looking like I army crawled through a dusty attic and I was clad in the day's worth clothes, I brought an apron to keep my dress tidy and had to opt out of the box-hugging task of relocating the mountain of junk to The Husband's car.

That means Mr. Megan had to do it all. And though I can often do a bang-up job with description, I can't be any sort of accurate in trying to explain just how much heavy refuse was stacked in my storage unit, so saying that it took the man (who is significantly stronger than he looks) 35 minutes of constant carrying and box breakdown is going to have to do.

When my racks were assembled, samples were inventoried, the day's materials gathered, and my hands filthy, it was time to head out into the wild and make productive contact with my docs. By that time, The Husband had completed the clean up and had earned himself a sweat. For me.

He sweat and slaved for me. It's not like that's unusual--I told you just this last Tuesday that he lives and loves to serve me, but it made me awfully grateful nonetheless. He did for me what I really didn't want to do, did it on his day off, and offered to help without my asking. So, although my day was long, my feet hurt, and I just wanted to crash when I got home from work last evening, when I arrived at our 'lil residence after the workday was through and located my spouse, I told the man that to thank him for his incredible help I wanted to take him to dinner wherever he'd like to go. (The significance of "wherever he'd like to go" is that I am an incredibly finicky eater and as he is as accommodating as I am finicky we rarely end up at his first-choice restaurants.)

If you live in the nether regions of Sparks as we do, you're 20 minutes from the freeway and getting to whatever out-to-dinner place you've selected is a noteworthy time commitment. Thus we spent the next 10 minutes brainstorming ideas of where he wanted to go. That one's too far. What's even around here? That food isn't even good. How far do you actually want to go? I'm sick of that. That one's way far too. We should stay around here. It isn't worth the drive. I went there earlier this week.

In the end, The Husband, even more tired than I and not keen on making our way across town for an evening out, said that rather than dinner he just wanted a giant diet soda and an ice cream cone. His choice, so I went along. I had one of the few diet sodas I've had in the recent past. A hefty one. So, wide-eyed, wired, and too mentally fatigued to be productive, I'm here to say that when you don't drink the stuff any kind of regularly and the tolerance you'd developed when it was a daily staple has dissolved, caffeine really punches you with the energizing ka-pow! it's rumored to possess.

Therefore sleep is not an option. Late last evening I [unwisely] had a big, fat diet soda and now, at nearly 4AM, a snooze is nothing more than a fairytale.

UPDATE: It's now 8:20AM and I've still not discovered slumber. Good thing I've no obligations to keep me from falling asleep sometime today. I hope.

TWITS OF LATE

• The Automated Postal Center makes me feel very patriotic. And a little amorous.

• I am gauche. I don't like macaroons.

• Do you ever wish to be simple-minded?

• Looking at Alex Trebek without a mustache makes me feel uncomfortable. Like I've just walked in on the dude taking a shower.

• Regret that my blog has been lame as of late--a direct reflection of my deteriorating brain and my present dislike for absolutely everyone.

• Tonight was the first night I had a teacher play Mustang Sally in yoga class. And, by George, I hope it's not the last. Ride, Sally, ride!

• Are you ever totally bummed when a really hot chick marries an ugly guy? And then do you think, "Wow, that happens too often?"

• This hair makes me look dull.

• I love it when Ben and Jerry write messages on the inside of their pints. And I hate when I find them. For it means I ate my way there. Again.

• The fruit that Eve snagged in the garden--the one that gifted us all our monthly periods--it was a rock hard nectarine. How could she resist?

• I don't think I'm using enough hair product.

• Just dropped off a pair of pants at the tailor. Got 'em for $10.99. Really. Post-tailor they'll cost me more than double that. Being short's a treat.

• Love my tailors; I really do. They do terrific work for reasonable flow, but the ethnic scent in their shop makes me gag.

• I lament that Tootsie Rolls are not an acceptable breakfast. I lament it and start my day with 'em anyhow.

• Anyone know of an eyeliner that won't come off? And isn't a tattoo?

• Driving home from Utah. I-80. Saw an animal transport truck full of pigs. Started to cry. Am deeply concerned with my mental welfare.

• There was a cat in the backyard this morning. It gave me great pleasure to see Soph literally shaking with furry and howling her little noggin off.

• Shouldn't my grocery store refrigerate fresh basil?

• Amy Adams' hair in Julie & Julie looks like a cheap toupee meant for an orangutan.

• Listening to: The Politically Incorrect Guide to Capitalism. Am enchanted, engaged, and enraged--about what I shall not reveal.

• Favorite quote in book: "There is no such thing as a collective brain." Ayn Rand. For so many reasons, if God were a woman, it'd be her.

• Want herbal water to come out of my tap. Any ideas on how we could pull that off? Down with flourination. Up with ginger lemongrass.

• Let's push gay marriage off the Issue Table and see about trio technology marriage. I want eternal union with my husband and my iPhone.

• Whole wheat pasta, especially fresh, has such a better flavor than the white stuff. Sorry, Whit, but it's true. Better for you. Better tasting.

• That yoga studio I subbed at a bit ago called me to do it again this Saturday. Gluttons for punishment.

• Ideally delicious brand of crackers for making hummus useful: Mary's Gone Crackers.

WITHOUT ENOUGH NORINEPINEPHRINE AND DOPAMINE

Ever go through a time when you like exactly two people on the planet and you think everyone else should end up in a mass grave or another galaxy?

Ever go through a period wherein everything you commonly care about isn't important? When, though you generally put a lot of time and thought into your blog, you simply don't have the drive? When all you want to do is bury yourself in your bed, eat Jelly Bellies and watch The West Wing? When thinking something nice, let alone saying something nice, doesn't appear to be a reasonable option? When you choose not to wash your face at night because it doesn't seem worth getting off your rear although your skin has already broken out from perpetual neglect? When although you feel like refuse you still need to perform at work? When your biggest accomplishment of the day seems to be taking out your contact lenses before bed and you only do that because your husband brings a contact case and solution to wherever you're lazing? When it's a good thing you're essentially inert, because wherever you go you leave a mess that you have no intention of handling? When you simply don't notice the little messes you've left all over the house? When the only thing that can upturn your lips into a something approaching a smile is your enthusiastic Yorkie and even that feels like weightlifting? When, though you're traditionally fretful about your weight, you eat everything in sight and all that you stuff in your trap is outside your norm? When though you love your time on your yoga mat you can't seem to make yourself put it in the car and drive to class? When though you know you feel great after a good session on the treadmill you have to gather all the gumption you've got, borrow a little more from the cosmos, and buy a new TV series in order to give it a mere 30 minutes?

Ever go through those spells and know that it has absolutely nothing to do with your gift of being a girl?

Ever go through those spells because you've been so involved in your all-consuming career that you've forgotten to take your antidepressant for a week? When you find yourself grateful for the reminder that the little white pill is an effective boost? When you remind yourself that you'll quickly lose the 5 lbs you just blessed yourself with because you've done it before--the last time that you screwed up and went without your necessary mental meds? When you are able to glimpse a glimmer of gratitude for your anatomical understanding of the drug's efficacy?

Ever go through a time when the person inside your body doesn't seem to be you at all?

Yes? A little somethin' verging on comprehension?

Thanks for your understanding. Not that I need it. Seeing as I hate you and everyone else. (Not that it's anything personal.)

MY AVIS

Excerpt from an email to Rabid dated 8.9.09 . . .

Greetings from a Chinese food-scented hotel room filled with the sounds of the Food Network, situated in nastily humid New Jersey. What a delight.

I, of course, don't know about you, but my day has been a total waste of life. I got up late, ate some cereal, was bummed that it was vanilla instead of plain soymilk, ate some hummus, turned on the Food Network, surfed the Internet, talked with [The Husband], ate some more hummus, crunched some radishes, spent some quality time on the treadmill, felt guilty that I ran on a Sunday, was annoyed that the soundtrack on my Shuffle is a bunch of lame slow stuff, got ready for the day, changed my shirt four times, audibly bitched over my fat ass when I slithered into my jeans, surfed eBay for some new jeans, tidied up my rooms, threw out all the chocolate wrappers in my purse from the clandestine snacking I'd done in class last week, packed up my laptop, went downstairs for my study group, put together Advanced Interviewing questions for a [drug] workshop tomorrow, took a counterpart with me to go looking for a Chinese food place, got lost while looking, had a hard time figuring out the windshield wipers on the rental car, found the Chinese, ate a bunch of their jelly beans while waiting for the food, took the food back to my room, discovered that it was gross Chinese food, snuck out by the elevator to toss it in the garbage can there so that my room wouldn't stink, came back to more Food Network, watched the Iron Chef, went back down to the treadmill to repent for the gross Chinese I shouldn't have eaten, hit my noggin on the corner of the wall-hung TV while shaking my head at how fat my gut is, again felt guilty for working out on a Sunday, justified it because I'm out of town and couldn't go to church, came back to my room, practiced handstands against the wall, changed into pajamas, and opened up my computer to write you back. No kidding. That was my waste of a day. Hopefully writing you back will be a bit redemptive.

After seeing the Julie & Julia flick with The Husband for his birthday (no kidding, his choice--must have something to do with the red and white checkered apron he was wearing in the photo I posted yesterday), as we were driving home, engaged in our post-picture-show commentary, I stated, That Avis was adorable.

Who was Avis? he asked. (How could he not remember? The movie ended 8 minutes ago.)

The pen pal. She was adorable.

Yeah . . . (Poor fellow doesn't care but doesn't want to shut me down altogether.)

She is like Rabid. I was excited to meet her like Julia was to meet Avis. Only we didn't write for 8 years. Rabid is my Avis.

May you all find an Avis. May each and every one of you discover a friend with whom you feel comfortable saying just about anything. Or anything, rather, as I've yet to find something I wouldn't feel comfortable writing or uttering to my Avis.

BEING SOMEONE ELSE [UN]COMMON

Don't take for granted that you're unique.

Though I know I have uncommon bits, I have always believed that when it comes down to it I'm just one of the same. I've assumed that wherever I go, I'll come across people like me. People who do what I do, like what I like, and want what I want.

How stupidly egocentric.

When you meet someone new and want to make something of the interaction, it's smart to find a point of commonality from which to bond and grow. If it's any kind of lasting or useful relationship you're looking for, capitalizing on similarities is just simple sense. But again and again I find myself struck that the concept sounds much easier than it is. Conversing with people isn't the problem. Finding the commonality is.

My job is one wherein I am perpetually meeting new people and they are people with whom success dictates I forge relationships. Familiar relations with office staff, medical providers, and my counterparts have the ability to make my day-to-day more fluid and comfortable. But I spend much of initial interactions slogging through a tough time locating a single common point from which to build beyond the fact that we both take in oxygen and live in Northern Nevada.

Out in the world, vegetarian, Mormon yoginis without kids who have a teeny dog, travel with a bathroom scale, and don't watch TV aren't as common as I assumed they'd be. It seems instead I most often interact with carnivorous, nondenominational soccer moms and dads who have German Shepherd mixes, avoid the scale, and love reality shows.

Thus I find myself often at a loss for what to chat about. And it hinders my job. It really does. Not only do I not know who the So You Think You Can Dance finalists are, I didn't even know the season was in progress. Not only do I not spend my evenings cheering at little league games, I'd happily pay someone a pretty penny to go in my place. Not only did I not spend all last night up with my sick toddler, I thank my lucky stars I've no toddler at all.

So I ask myself, Should I change? Should I make my life easier by becoming more like everyone else? Should I have chicken for lunch, go to a neighborhood church some Sundays, take aerobics classes, stop giving a damn about my weight, and get into The Bachelorette so that I can carry on a conversation that comprises more than the day's weather and fielding questions about whether or not my sky-high shoes hurt?

I've actually stepped inside the Self to see if sacrificing said self would be worth it.

The answer?

Well, of course not. Even if I find it's more challenging to build relationships when I've seemingly nothing in common with my target audience, I'd rather be pleased with the choices I make, whether or not they're of the most popular variety and enable relationship-building conversations.

Can you make a note to remind me of that conviction next time I come out of a lunch appointment wondering if I shouldn't start watching Monday Night Football? Thanks, I'd really appreciate it.

GO READ THIS

Mom's most recent post.

It's one of those things women of all ages and stages can identify with, depending on their phase.

'DO I?

You've been dying to know, haven't you? You haven't been able to sleep because you've been wondering how I like my new haircut, haven't you?

Benevolently, I'm going to grant you some shut-eye and tell you . . .

I hate it.

Don't get me wrong, I think my sister did a nice job of implementing the cut; I just don't think it suits me. At all.

It's been, what?--like three weeks or something since I left lunch with Rabid to sit in Cat's chair and tell her to go for it? And still--even after three weeks--each time I look in a mirror (which has become less and less since said fateful day), I mumble curse words, shake my head, spend 15 minutes trying to fix it into something I can stomach, or just quickly look away.

So it would make sense that I get to growing it out now, right? Yes, that would make sense. Is that what I plan to do? No. I'm the self-flagellating kind. I figure that since I made the choice to mess up my head, if there's any chance I might, I need to try to learn to like it.

I'm self-aware enough to know that I deal badly with change, even when self-implemented, and so there is a chance that somewhere down the road I might end up liking the shorter 'do. (I just said "self" three times in short succession--never a good sign.) And I'm going to stick around and wait for that day.

Thus, when we head to Utah for Addison's blessing in early September, I'm going to make an appointment to sit again with Caitlyn and ask her to color, trim and reshape the cut I currently have, maybe having her tighten up the back a bit.

If nothing else, I seem to like the idea of punishing myself for making a rash decision.

HAIL! THE CONQUERING ROMO!

I've returned! I'm home.

Home? you say, Where have you been?

New Jersey.

Jersey? What for? Why?

Well, I'll tell you . . .

About five months ago I left the drug company I'd been employed with for the previous three years to take a promotion with another company. This meant that along with the new doctors I gained responsibility for, I acquired new drugs, which often means new disease states, which means intensive training. Which is what I've been engaged in for the last five months.

Five new drugs: a whole lot of training. I spent the last two weeks in New Jersey immersed in the heavy part of my training on the last two of the five medications I now promote.

(Putting you in the pharmaceutical know: At this company, as in most pharmaceutical companies, the first phase of initial training is a bunch of home study--review of relevant anatomy and physiology, disease state study, drug review, a run-through of competitive products, and a whole bunch of tests on all of the above to prove that you understand and remember what you've been studying. The second phase sends you to the home office for implementation training--the part where you apply what you studied at home, take more tests on it, and then hop to work practicing to make what you studied relevant to the physician/staff. That second phase is where I've been for the last two weeks.)

Let's be very clear here: the training I was just sent to New Jersey to engage in is no pushover review. It's the kind of training that occurs in a temporary bubble.

Family doesn't exist any more. You're not married. You're not female. You're not into yoga. You don't have any pets. You certainly don't have any kids. You don't have friends. Despite the fact that like an idiot you brought them, you don't have jeans. You don't have flip flops. You have a hotel room. You have a training facility. You have a rental car. You have coworkers. You have drugs. It's not the company that makes those designations, it's necessity.

When in the microcosm of training, in order to make the trip worth your time and prove to all that you are the superstar your boss has told his cohorts he hired, you have to eschew all bits of your reality that have naught to do with excelling at work. That, Dear Reader, included my blog. For me, it meant going off the grid; and, if I'm being totally honest, I'm telling you that I really, really liked it. I like anonymity. I like solitude. I like falling into study. It's why I did well in college. Hellish, monofocus study is what I'm good at.

But I'm home now.

And when I had time to, I missed you.

Was my training a success? Was I successful? I'd say that since I now dream in disease state and have officially discontinued-until-further-notice all KnuckleHeaders work, that yes, I was successful. I know what needs to be done to kick ass. My dad calls it "cranking." I know I have the capacity to do it. And I'm going to.

And I think my manager will be very pleased with my final video role play that the training department has put on a USB drive and is shipping to him for review. (I'll tell you what: I had me a set of awfully raw nerves when preparing for and executing that little gem. Just thinking about it gives me Popcorn Gut.)

Over the next little while you may get to enjoy a few posts comprised of innocent tidbits from my trip (so far as I can remember them). Although I am no longer taking on design work and have whittled my reading down to even fewer than the 18 blogs I was subscribing to before, I simply cannot back off of my Remarkings. I just have too much to say.

Lucky you.

MEMO

Darling Readers,

See, the thing is, I'm very important and very busy. And it's all pretty top secret. (Or at least I'm going to pretend it is so that you feel a nagging suspense that I'll never sate; it's my way of weaseling my way into your day-to-day.) I'll do what I can to provide my regular installments of witty tidbits and scathing commentary, but my best most surely won't grant you the usual whimsy and caprice you're accustomed to.

If you don't hear much from me over the next couple weeks that's just tough. I've got a thing I'm doing. So, I'll see ya when I see ya.

And well, I just might miss you.

Rainbows and butterflies,

Meg

LIVING LONG ENOUGH TO PROSPER

I’m not afraid to admit that I like Star Trek. I’m a fan. I’m not a trekkie, but thanks to my mom, I’m into the original Star Trek movies, a bit of The Next Generation (aren't the tones in Patrick Stewart’s voice exquisite?), and the subsequent cinematic productions.

Thus, when the most recent addition to the franchise made its way to theaters, I was game to see it.

When it comes to movies’ release in the theater, the way things generally go down in our house is like this: I hear about a new production. I get excited to see it. I get busy. The movie comes out. The Husband asks me to go to said flicker show. I tell him I am too busy. He goes alone. A few weeks later I find myself less busy. He takes me to see the movie, experiencing it for the second time himself. This is our norm. And our norm applied to Star Trek. Mr. Spouse saw it, and, initially, I did not.

Why this is totally wrong: he’s not even a Star Trek fan. I am. Movie quotes in conversation and all. (“Double dumb ass on you!”)

When finally I did get to settle into the theater for this flick, I was enchanted. Yes, as a stand alone cinematic experience, the movie was good. For me, as a part of the Star Trek franchise it was great. I’ve told all who will listen that I damn near cried when Spock told the young Kirk that “[He has] been and always shall be [his] friend.” People! That’s what Spock said in Wrath of Kahn as he was dying! Little things like that helped my heart to race from scene to scene with the edge of glee of one who knows.

In addition to liking Star Trek I also like books on iPod, so when I discovered an item that melded the two, it took a single second and a single click for me to make it mine: Leonard Nimoy’s I Am Spock, the follow-up to his poorly received I Am Not Spock from the late 70s.

Unfortunately, all audible had to offer me was the abridged version. (I can’t stand abridged versions as a general rule, but I gave in for a taste of Nimoy as himself.) The listen didn’t disappoint. I had the privilege of driving around Reno, zipping from one medical building to another, to the tales of one man and his time in the ears of a Vulcan. When the book ended, I found myself wishing for more.

Which makes things a crying shame that I’ll have to wait until mid November for the DVD release of Star Trek: The Future Begins. In the meantime I guess I'll just have to have George and Gracie keep me company.