STIMULATING

We dont need no dickshunaree to teech us how to spel heer in Reeno.

NOT A LOSS FOR WORDS

Sometimes I’m a fount. A fount of things to say—to write. Much as I wish it were, this isn’t one of those spells.

I’m flat. I’m drawing blanks. It’s not that I’ve nothing to say—I’m not dead—it’s that I can’t wrap my head around topics on which I want to speak, to harp, praise, lambaste, or Remark. I know I have opinions somewhere, but nothing these days kicks me hard enough to induce a passionate response.

I have words and nothing on which to bestow them. I need a topic to decorate or destroy. The catharsis I normally experience in the maintenance of this space has abandoned me.

Truly, it all happened after I cut my hair. I was unaware, but like Samson, I had reliance on longer locks; only for me it wasn’t strength the shears leeched but instead wryness, pluck, and wit. Tenets of the self I’ve carefully crafted. Though I am now charmed by the result of Cat’s snippery, the newly-cropped locks have unfortunately made me less of myself. Apparently, each clip took a little bit of my audacity with it. My fire’s been flushed.

Now, though decidedly more elfin looking, I’m bland.

And though at times I can sit calmly within the grey fence of mediocrity, bland just isn’t something I can be. Is my sassy hair using up my allotment of spirit and scrap? Do I only get so much and the ‘do stole it all?

I’d be callous, however, to blame only my ‘do for this state of insipid being; my job has played a considerable role in sucking the Me out of Megan. After months of study and quite a few clacks on the pavement, I’m a better selling machine than ever before, but again, it means I’ve not got what I once had. I should be able to be both, right—me and my job?

Is it the increase of facts, figures and solutions that I now work to remember? Is there only so much space and each new number pushes spunk a little further from reach?

Your help please.

What do you want to hear? What should I write about? I don’t know how long this rut is going to hold me, but perhaps you can spawn the impetus for my recovery. It doesn’t mean I’m going to stop posting; it means that what I leave here is going to continue being total junk.

My sister, Whit, when she wants a little something sparky written on a specific topic, sends me an email or a text message. I don’t usually let on when that’s the case; I just write the post, put ‘er up, and go on my merry way. She’s happy that a thing that needed sayin’ was said, and I’m happy that I had fodder to play with. And you’re happy—or not—that you had something to read and consider.

The words are here, the hay is not.

Inspire me. Goad me. Give me something to apply words and give a little life.

PERIOD.

I suck at being a girl.

We’re in my car and The Husband asks if I have any lotion. Northern Nevada is whatcha call the high desert, and in respect to dryness, it lives up to its name.

No, of course not, I tell him, I'm not actually a girl.

We’re in my car and The Husband asks if I have any lipstuff. Northern Nevada is whatcha call the high desert, and in respect to dryness, it lives up to its name.

No, of course not, I’m not actually a girl.

We’re in the car and The Husband asks if I have any nail clippers. His need to constantly clip his nails has nothing to do with living in the high desert.

No, of course, not. I’m not actually a girl.

Like I said, I suck at being a girl.

I chew my nails, thus I always have hang nails or bleeding cuticles. My pedicures are few and far between and induced by the guilt of having awful looking toesies. I don’t carry a purse. I’m almost always out of shampoo. I hate going to Ulta. I think shopping is drudgery. And I never buy tampons.

The Husband does it for me.

From the beginning of our days of wedded bliss—and of course every moment has been a one of bells, roses, and stop-yer-heart romance; I can’t help myself if I just love him more and more every single day; when we’re not together my heart drops to my gut and my fingers twitch with ache to touch him—my spouse has been the one to dash off the to store, morning or night, when I discover I’m on my period. For at the beginning of my routine red plague I am always digging through bags, rifling through the car, and tearing apart bathroom cupboards searching for a solitary paper-wrapped plug.

He saves me from starting in on the junk drawer in the kitchen and the racks in the garage when he grabs his keys and makes for the store. He’s never once purchased the wrong kind.

You didn’t see this coming? He’ll ask.

Uh, no. I swear this happened like last week. How was I supposed to know it was coming again so soon?

It wasn’t last week, he says, checking his phone, It was last month.

You calendar me?

There’s an app for it.

Disgusting.

What’s disgusting is that you always find it’s your time of the month and are shocked, like it’s never happened before.

How am I supposed to know? (Remember, I have an IUD; I don’t take the pill.) It’s no kind of regular. Stupid nastiness just sneaks up on me.

I’d just think you could read your body better. You can look in the mirror and know what your weight is to the pound.

Yeah, but that’s the important stuff.

Maybe I'm better at being a girl than I thought.

THE BEEP IN THE BLACK

A 9-hour travel day. A couple weeks of training ahead. In the hotel. Room 353. Face washed. Teeth brushed. Contacts out. Pajamas on. In bed by eight. Alarm set for six.

Ten hours of sleep banked, and I'll be on my game tomorrow.

But at 11PM I'm jerked from slumber. A soft but persistent beeping invades my sleep cycle. I bang around the unfamiliar space until I uncover the source. A fancy alarm clock. The one that had been spouting lute tunes intended to soothe when I had walked in and dropped my bags hours earlier.

Hazy in the head, in the stupor of recent sleep, I yank the clock from the wall and shove it under the pile of pillows on The Husband's side of the bed. No, he's not with me, but I sleep to one side; there's always a place for him.

The pricey down bedclothes don't mute the irritation. So I grab the clock, stumble into the bedroom doors, bonk my head, clutch at the handles and fumble to get out, and then, feet heavy, I make my way into the living/kitchen space to search for a place sufficiently far from my bed to banish the clock.

While pawing through the cushions on the sleeper sofa, I notice that the room is black. No activity lights on the DVD player or the AC temp control. The power is out. But the clock still tells the time. 11:06PM. The jarring sound persisting from its innards must be the spawn of a reserve battery.

Does the entire hotel find itself powerless?

No, for the basketball court's lights glow through the drapes, and there is a shining from the hall through the crack beneath my door. So I deposit the clock on the couch and lurch back to the bedroom, slapping flat surfaces, hands searching for my phone. Small paws close around the tool and light it up. I google the hotel and call the front desk.

The elderly gentleman that had taken my AmEx earlier zips right up to my room to flip the breaker--an act I assure him I am capable of executing if he'd just tell me where to find the box.

He arrives, and among the nocturnal mayhem, I find something to be grateful for: in the blackness of my room, the man is unable to see me in my deep-sleep glory, an image worthy of Mary Shelley's talent for grotesque description. Using light from the hall, he lifts the bulletin board from the wall to reveal the breaker box. He flips the switch. No magic. He's still protected from the shock of my vertical locks.

In a flurry of apologies he leaves me to dash downstairs. He returns with a key for room 342 and suggests that I sleep across the hallway and return to my room in the morning to slog through my AM rigmarole.

Too fatigued to question logistics or timelines, I pocket my phone and bumble across the hall to room 342. He is then assaulted by the sight of my hair.

Once woken I cannot get back to sleep. Opportunity lost. That's the true inconvenience.

So I toss and turn for the next hour, becoming more and more alert, and then recall that I have hummus and soymilk in my dead fridge across the hall. I roust myself and return the space strewn with my belongings to collect the food and bring it to the functioning fridge. At 12:30AM, I unlock the door to room 353. Where the power is back on.

HOLD OR HAND

I am a handshaker.

You and I meet for the first time and I will likely stick out my hand, expecting you to grasp it in return.

I'll do so at the start of our initial interaction, and when I'm leaving you I'll probably repeat the ritual accompanied with a pleasantry expressing how delightful it was to make your acquaintance. It doesn't matter if our meeting is of a professional nature or not, for I am most comfortable beginning any interaction with a display of detached amiability. A quick grasp, a couple shakes, and we've initiated our relationship. (Sounds a bit like the completion of the male peeing ritual, doesn't it?)

When I was a snotty youth and dating from time to time, one of the tricks Sue would employ to assess the little fellers I brought home was to judge their handshake. Did he initiate the ritual? Was it a firm grasp? Did he have clammy hands? Sweaty palms? Did he execute the dead fish handshake some think more appropriate for women than the aggressive grasp? The boys that failed the handshake test were those that quickly gripped my ma's paw in a wimpy, noncommittal gesture.

It's awkward for me when a woman I'm shaking hands with offers me only her fingers to grasp. I feel like I'm touching something I shouldn't. Instead of the bent wrist and gentle squeeze, give me your palm, grasp my hand firmly and shake it. Let me know you're there. Give me just your fingers to hold, and I feel like a creep.

Some of my proudest moments are those when a new acquaintance, post shake, comments on the strength of the clasp and asks me to repeat the gesture. Those moments are the ones when I know I just did the mother proud.

I am a handshaker, but I am not a hugger. That method of contact is too familiar.

Some folks hug by habit and do so with impulse. For some, it's innate. When I discover that's the variety of individual I'm dealing with, I deploy my signals. The body language tricks that say, I'm not going to hug you. I like you okay, but I'm not going to make my body available for you to squeeze. Acts like taking a few steps back as we depart to go to our separate cars. Turning my shoulder toward them, rather than facing directly. Quickly sticking out the hand to shake before they can spread their arms and lean in.

But there are dullards, men and women alike, that don't clue into my physical communication, and I've had to spell it out for 'em: Do not hug me. I'm not a hugger, and it's nothing personal. Like that last bit is any kind of effective in preserving their tender feelings. They're going to internalize my rejection as a personal insult no matter how well I cushion it. It's not you, baby. It's me.

However, there are some people with which the friendly hug is unavoidable. If a doctor is a hugger, I'm not going to sit 'em down for the Don't Hug Me talk. If I have a boss that hugs upon departure, I yield to the ritual but raise my eyebrows at the unprofessionalism as I peer over their shoulder. In many of those situations, sticking out the hand before the hug's in play can effectively preempt the body squeeze, but if the hugger beats me to initiating the closing contact, there's really no option but to give in.

And when I do succumb, there's the question of how to hug. Is the hugger doing a side-squeeze? Are they going for a full-body gesture? And if it is a full-frontal, where do I put my face? I'm short in stature, so my face is most often going to land on the hugger's chest or neck. If we don't choreograph our hug appropriately, I could end up nestling into a bosses neck or getting makeup on the lapels of a married man. And then, when we break away from a poorly coordinated hug, there's the concern that the initiator may have read something into the face folly. They may assume my intent was to get cosy when that wasn't my aim at all, as I wasn't thrilled about the interaction in the first place.

Huggers worldwide: if you lean in to wrap your limbs 'round the body of another, you'd best prepared for the sometimes creepy consequences. To stave off such discomfort, I recommend you give me your hand. I'll render a grasp to remember.

MAKING WHOLE

Sometimes, the finest section of my day is the part when I get to hide in my car for a bit, eat my lunch, and continue listening to whatever book's been fueling me throughout the day.

If circumstances permit, at the lunch hour I drive to our Whole Foods, park my car in a remote spot, and head in to purchase my staple lunch with its slight variations. Some days I'll toss in a couple pieces of pita. If I'm feeling that I've gone too long without self-flagellation, I'll include some feta cheese. Other days it's black olives--never kalamata; I can't stand 'em. Sometimes whole garbanzos join the melange. And if I'm feeling naughty, I'll land at the express checkout with a vegan peanut butter smore from the chilled bakery section. The little alterations add a sprinkle of excitement, serving as a barrier between my everyday lunch and monotony.

If I stand in one place in Whole Foods long enough (like I sometimes must do when waiting for a catering order) I'm sure to spy someone I know. Not generally a friend or an acquaintance I can comfortably chat with, just someone I recognize or know the name of, maybe a person from church or work or yoga. I may greet them, or I might just take note and continue scanning and watching. Anonymity and solitude in the midst of a crowd often prompt introspection in a way that isolation cannot.

After I have my lunch in hand, rather than settling at one of the tables inside or out, I clack back to my car, get in, shut the door, turn on the AC, press play on my iPod, scoot my seat back as far as it can go, slip off my shoes, prop my left foot on the seat (if not in a restrictive skirt), and dig in.

It could just be fifteen minutes of the day that I spend in such a state, but they're my fifteen minutes. I don't answer the phone, check emails, or respond to outside stimuli. Alone in my box, I pick through my lunch making bites. A tomato and tabbouleh dipped in hummus. Half a falafel, some hummus, and a couple feta crumbles fused on my fork. I listen to my book, sometimes using it as ambient noise, as I loose the power to focus when wandering through my thoughts.

When lunch is done and my water bottle is about half-way to recyclable, I set the trash aside, sit up straight, put my shoes back on, scoot my chair forward, check my teeth for interlopers, swish some water if there are barnacles, toss in some gum to eradicate the malodorous breath hummus leaves behind, put on lipstuff, and check my phone for any calls or emails I might have missed.

Then I pull out of the parking lot in whatever direction the next stop dictates I ought.

Refreshed? Perhaps. Revived? Maybe. Renewed? Sometimes. Fed? Yes. And at least that gives me the energy required to keep on.

UNCOMPLIMENTARY

I give and I give. Constantly. Without reservation. And when I need something from you, what do I get? Bupkis.

You have so very many needs, and I fulfill each and every one.

You're so needy so often, and I'm always there for you. I never put off your needs, directing my attention elsewhere. When you are lacking, when you need a boost, you're my number one concern.

You're expensive. You have no regard for economic strife. You run through money like a sieve, yet I keep throwing more at you. Giving whenever you ask. Never calling it a loan. You need funds, they're yours.

In giving to you, I feel hope, a desperate hope that someday you'll morph into something better. Something more generous.

I'm foiled every time.

I care for you. I give you attention. I'm dedicated to your welfare. To the detriment of my other obligations and priorities, I am wholly devoted to you and your never-ending needs, yet when I come to you, seeking reprieve from one of my needs, you deny me every single time. You have so much--so much I've given you--and all you concede are scraps, rubbish.

Closet of Mine, why--with all that I've given you over the years, all the attention I've paid--can't you just yield something decent to wear?

BOOBY TRAPPING

• I love the word malignancy. It feels just right in my mouth. Like a healthy snack.

• At work, I try to be aggressive. That tends to fatten my bank account and make me more popular with my bosses.

But an aggressive and malignancy together really suck. And my grandma is afflicted with both.

She has the cancer, my friend.

She's newly diagnosed with a nefarious, malevolent, mean-spirited cancer of the buzzes (or "beeps" if yours are teeny like mine). And the tumor's a real son of a bitch. Without getting to graphic and personal, I'll tell you that she's had the prescribed surgery (and told me she liked losing a few pounds without the inconvenience of diet or exercise) and is about to undergo months of chemotherapy--a treatment almost worse than the diagnosis it endeavors to mitigate.

My G-Ma's name is Betty Lou. I'm not kidding. Isn't that just delectable? She's my papa's mama. She's hilarious, and she's one of the founts from which sprung some of my sauciness (so if you enjoy me, you have her to thank).

My Aunt Robin is her primary caregiver and has been doing a bang-up job of handling the necessities of such care. She's thrown herself all the way into doing what's necessary to combat the bastard cancer, and because she's been so committed to giving the cancer the ass-kicking it so richly deserves, she has been unable to give her day job the attention it normally gets.

She is a Pampered Chef consultant, and I'll tell you what--one heck of one. Let me say this right here and now: I see through multi-level marketing from four-thousand feet away. My dad spent years on the corporate side of NuSkin, so I understand compensation plans, am familiar with MLM structures, and know a pitch when I hear one. But when it comes to my Aunt Robin and Pampered Chef, I'm sold.

Perhaps it's her years and years of incredible success that's engaged me. Or maybe the kitchenware itself. No, I don't ever intend to be a representative. Or to become a cook like Whitney. But when I need something for my kitchen (which I only have 'cause it came with the house) I know that Pampered Chef can come through for me, both in the arena of recipes and equipment. For instance, as of late, our Pampered Chef pizza stone is getting some play since The Husband's become a pizza-making fiend; I never thought it would, but a stone sure does make a difference in the crust. Who knew?

Aunt Robin's dedication to clobbering my G-Ma's cancer means that her business is limping. So my mom is hosting an online Pampered Chef party. Online means you aren't being pressured and end up buying stuff you don't actually need. You peruse at your leisure and decide what might actually be useful in your kitchen adventures (misadventures in my case) or what might make a good gift for your G-Ma or someone else nifty. Perhaps I just gave you the gift of an altruistic reason to buy yourself stuff.

Since you know I'm not the kind to blow smoke, flatter, or act under false pretenses, you can trust me when I say this isn't some kind of blog post intended to guilt you into buying stuff you don't need. That would be a manipulation and a lame one. My mom sent an email about this party, encouraged her daughters to publicize however we chose--if we chose, and I thought a mention on my beloved Remarks couldn't hurt.

To participate, click here:

http://www.pamperedchef.biz/robinanderson

• From there, click on "Our Products" (first screen shot).
• Then, cluck on "How to Purchase" (second screen shot).
• Next, put in my mom's name, "Sue Peterson," as in the third screen shot.
• After that, click on the link that is her name (fourth screen shot).

At that point, you have my enthusiastic encouragement to look around and see what there is to see.




Note • For some reason, as written, this won't work in Safari. When I enter my mom's name it comes up with "No Matches Found." Apologies for that. I can do many things; fixing that ain't one. I tested it in Firefox on my Mac and in IE on the work PC--both worked out fine.

I'll never know whether or not you entered the site or plunked down some dough. My role is just to get the word out.

Sometimes we women have to give other gals' boobs a boost.

MENTAL TO-DOS

At the bathroom sink, TonerPaperTailor.

At the breakfast bar, TonerPaperTailor.

In the car, TonerPaperTailor.

Getting things out of the trunk, TonerPaperTailor.

Heading into a doctor's office, TonerPaperTailor.

Waiting for the doctor, TonerPaperTailor.

Walking back to the car, TonerPaperTailor.

On the way to a lunch appointment, TonerPaperTailor.

Twiddling thumbs before lunch appointment, TonerPaperTailor.

Moving on to the next stop, TonerPaperTailor.

And the next, TonerPaperTailor.

Glancing at the bag of slacks to be taken up, TonerPaperTailor.

In a sample closet, TonerPaperTailor.

Squinting to read a poorly printed page, TonerPaperTailor.

In storage unit, TonerPaperTailor.

Clandestinely changing into yoga clothes in storage unit, TonerPaperTailor.

Driving to yoga, TonerPaperTailor.

In savasana, TonerPaperTailor.

Driving home, feeling energized, TonerPaperTailor.

Home and at the computer, %&$#! I forgot to pick up the toner and paper and go by the tailor!

TWITSY

• If woman one cheats with is called a mistress, then is a man one cheats with called a manstress?

• Fact: I have never participated in a limbo contest that I haven't won.

• Taking Woodstock: a naked education in culture. And a bummer in that it wasn't more focused on the music.

• Husband wants the brownies.

• I am sick and tired of obligations. So I've decided to swear them off. Like a bad habit.

• The serum I use on my face looks exactly like seminal fluid. You don't think that perhaps . . . ?

• Love my Sigg. Not sure why. Perhaps 'cause the lip feels so suckably sumptuous.

• Jason Mraz is a bit of a genius. It might be love. Use the word "lugubrious" in swingin' tune and I'll Do Anything. I'm Yours.

• Found some Regenerist in the bathroom from a sample box. Shrugged shoulders and put it on. Broke out horribly.

• Am feeling much regret about putting that Olay on my face. The stuff Buffy sent me has been incredible. And I jacked it up.

• Just sat through a speaker program in a Sushi joint. That crud reeks and looks like sculpted vomit.

• Liking my 'do. Throw a party to celebrate. I knew it would take time. And time it has taken. I’m not 100% sold. But getting there.

• I'm happy with my husband's job. I feel great joy hearing his stories about people leaving the Apple store with a new best friend to love.

• Boca burgers. A genius and rather perplexing creation.

• Trying to use my calendar on my work computer. Haven’t been this computer frustrated in years. I hate Microsoft. I’m using the word Hate here.

• So spacey that I just tried to enter a phone number into my calculator. Fortunately, commas instead of dashes clued me in.

• I love people who assume that they are the most important thing in my life. No wait. I hate them like I hate body fat.

• Mini Clif Bars, where have you been all my life?

• Soph to the vet. Bordetella spray up the nose, fecal exam, pedicure, poultry-flavored toothpaste, and $90 later, it appears she’s healthy.

• Wonder when the government is going to go poking its big fat gut into Pet Insurance For All. Socialized pet healthcare: the next frontier.

• Sept. 10 & 11. Maybe someday I'll explain the unique importance of these days to our family. Has to do with terrorism of a different kind.

• Great thing about my hair: I wake up in the morning 4 inches taller.

• Again with the babies in church. TAKE THEM OUT of Sacrament meeting/Sunday School/Relief Society. Or go home.

• Went into the grocery store and realized I left my list in the car. Was too tired to go back and get it, so I spent $150 on haphazard groceries.

• Listening to The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Slow to start but riveting to the point of procrastinating necessities.

• I feel a wretched sense of triumph when a pretentious egomaniac writes "my friend and I" in a context that’s properly "my friend and me."

• I feel the same catty rush when learning that not only is someone very cultured and full of themselves, but they're also very ugly.

• Adjectives I cannot stand: whimsical, vintage, retro, and comfy.

• Why doesn't my life feel like my yoga practice? Why don't I get to feel the same compelling rush when I'm off my mat?

• Is there anything worse than a mealy tomato? Is there anything worse than the word "mealy?"

• The Papyrus font is going to push me to the point of requiring anger management therapy. I feel hot blood when I see it.

• I relish the ritual of tea.

• I take it back. Soph isn't all the way healthy. Fecal revealed that she's picked up a parasite. What a hassle. No wonder I don't want kids.

• In the other room, The Husband just listened to Hootie and the Blowfish, Phil Collins, and Celine Dion in succession. Embarrassed for him.

• "There's nothing wrong with lust that a little matrimony won't cure." • Rabbi Shmuley Boteach

• Please tell me that I don't ever come off as put-together. Would rather be honest. A mishmash. A hodgepodge. A me.

• Save space. Do the Snow Leopard.

• Ever almost accidentally smacked the arse of someone else's husband? I nearly did. Relieved that I noticed the difference before impact.

• Remember body suits? There's something really wrong with a top that snaps between your legs.

WEDDING SHOOTER

There's no two ways about it: anyone who wants to be a wedding photographer is short a few marbles. They're 'round the bend. Their cheese is off the cracker. They're off their rockers. They're bananas. They're nuts. They're whacko. They're insane.

They boggle my mind.

Floating about the world, and far too densely congregated in Utah Valley, there are nitwits who think that shooting pictures for someone's special day is an easy way to make good dough.

Idiots.

How would I know? As I'm a self-professed camera no-naught and am not motivated to change that (for I'd rather play with words than images), how is it that I'd know anything at all about what goes into being a wedding photog?

I had the privilege of experiencing a few days in the life.

Ashley Thalman is the real thing. She shoots families, trades, fans, moments, memories, brides, babies, engagements, guests, parties, art, experiences, emotions, and everything in between. Because of her ability to capture the aforementioned with unique perspective and an artistic eye, the singularly talented Jessica Gonacha hired Ash to photograph her engaged joy and wedding festivities. As it was a destination wedding and Ash is one of my best friends, I thought she might need a hand; so I invited myself to tag along under the guise of being her assistant.

Hear this, all: snapping up the tidbits that make themselves marital bliss is no piece of wedding cake.

First, if you want just the right light for an engagement session, it's not out of the ordinary or out of line to inform the bride and groom that they need to be up, alert, and beautiful at 5AM. You might drive down to the beach and trudge through the sand, stepping over kelp, directing the lovers to perch on the lifeguard stand, nestle in in the damp sand, or slowly walk up the steep path. Initially, the two being photographed may feel pretty awkward.

What are we supposed to do?

Just act natural.

What is natural?

Enjoy each other. Snuggle up. Do what you do. Hold hands. Chat. Laugh.

At 5AM?

Fortunately, Jessica and Ryan were pretty perfect as they have a natural physical chemistry, easily make each other laugh, were game for anything Ash told them to, and are, in the first place, attractive. (I think that being retained to photograph ugly people would be a wretched gig. They'd expect you to make them good-looking when what you started out with was, well, not. A weed's a weed; calling it a crocus can't change it.)

The day after engagements, Ash shot the beach wedding.

And here's when I really learned that wedding photography is only for the addled. I wasn't the photographer. I wasn't the one rolling around in the sand to get the perfect picture, stepping around guests to find the right shot, and dashing from one spot to another to grab a different view of the same. No, I was only that person's assistant, and I came home sunburned, hungry, dirty, thirsty, sore, reeking of bonfire smoke, and catatonic with fatigue--and all this not because I was denied shade, sunblock, food, and water.

No, no--along with making sure she was there for each moment worthy of note and even those that would be otherwise forgotten, the photographer kept checking in on me to ask if I wanted food or needed water and encouraging me to sit down and rest. I was there to help her and she was keeping one of her sharp eyes on my welfare while still well-capturing the couple's culmination day.

And this photog didn't just shoot the ceremony and subsequent mingling. She also did the photobooth. The photobooth that involved shipping a 12-foot roll of paper and other equipment to the groom's parents' before her arrival and flying into California with an armory of heavy gear. All that for classic candids of the bride and groom's guests.

Through the events, I followed Ash around, holding things, handing her different lenses when instructed, and while I did, she'd explain to me why she needed certain pieces, what each item was for, how she was utilizing directional light, aperture, composition, and other mumbo jumbo necessary to locate the ideal image.

Due to all her technical knowhow, willingness to run to and fro, ability to work without sleep (thanks to some incredibly fun and satisfying late, late talking we engaged in the night before), on-the-fly problem solving, resourcefulness, and the fact that all of the above was imperative to produce attractive evidences of Jessica and Ryan's day, I reaffirmed my conviction that all the bimbos out there thinking that wedding photography is an easy, part-time, well-paying gig are delusional freaks.

It's not an easy occupation, and for me, it wouldn't be fun. However, my little blond friend seemed to be having the time of her life. And if proof really is in the picture, I'd say the time of her life did a great job capturing the time of theirs.

YORE CHUBBY

Found this in my iPhoto. From where I know not.

Ma has often commented that her teenage girls grew out before they grew up. Wider before taller. Unfortunately, according to this image, snapped when I'd long stopped gaining height and was hovering at the 5' 2" I maintain today, the Wider likes to stick around longer than is welcome.


Yes, I'm the one on the far left.

I knew you'd be shocked.

(I'm praying you're shocked.)

DIVINE PUNK

If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him. • James 1:5

When The Husband was 18, just burstin' on to young manhood, prepping for embarkation on his 2 year church mission, he figured it would be nice to know which lucky girl he'd marry when he returned home in righteous triumph.

The guy just wanted to be aware so that he wouldn't have to waste time test-driving. A pragmatic youth.

Per James 1:5, he asked God. He fell to his knees and sincerely inquired who the eternal companion was to be. And sho' nuff, an answer was given him.

Marietta Kergan.

Remember that friend? The friend of the opposite sex that you didn't think of that way? The one you never kissed? The neighborhood friend you went to school dances with on short notice and without airs? The friend that was more fun to hang out with than your stated significant other?

The Husband's was a gal named Marietta Kergan.

A little shocked but nevertheless exhilarated that Someone had been so kind as to send reply to his prayerful askin', he lept to his feet and dashed down the street to let Marietta in on the news.

In her basement, they sat. The boy gazed into brown eyes he'd never peered into with anything even approaching passion. And he told her that God had revealed to him that they'd one day wed.

She wigged out. So did her parents. It was the abrupt end to four years of platonic comfort. So long, Marietta.

But he had prayed! And had been granted an answer without any keep-it-under-your-hat contingency that he was aware of. He believed the scripture. Made the motions. Got an answer. And it blew up in his earnest face.

Basically, he got punk'd. By God.

BITS OF A ROMO WEEKEND

Beginning on Friday:

She works. Meeting with cohorts. A lunch.

He has the day off. Miscellaneous to-dos done while Silence of the Lambs plays in the background.

She comes home and they chat about how delicious a villain is Hopkins' Hannibal.

She goes to change, putting on the jeans she went running in, and they head out for date night. An al fresco dinner at Whole Foods. Even without misters on, folks can do that in Reno, for the evening temperature is ideal.

Post-sup, as it is a while before their movie starts, he drives them around downtown Reno, exploring the area they've lived in for two years and still not experienced. She spends most of the ride alternatively commenting on all the dog walkers out, covering her eyes, and reading street signs aloud so that he won't miss them (It says No Turn On Red!). Though he is an excellent driver, she has always been a fearful, bossy passenger. They discover that there is a nice park by the river downtown. Yes, a river runs through it. Their city, that is.

After touring around, marveling that anyone would pay money to vacation in Reno, they make their way to Sparks for a 7:45 showing of District 9. He chose the flicker show in advance, and she is determined not to let him know that she thinks it an incredibly stupid choice. Things she cannot take seriously: aliens in movies and opera in church. He never catches on that she'd rather stare at the wall than sit through that movie.

She rolls her eyes as the movie launches. Rolls them and then keeps them and her little mouth wide open as they experience a movie like none they'd ever seen before. She takes the aliens seriously. So seriously that she cries when the aliens are treated unfairly and things go awry for the little Son alien. She appreciates that the alien weaponry blasts humans to mush, because she prefers not to watch suffering. Humans are more inhumane. She nearly cheers aloud when they worst of the bad guys gets his head ripped off. She learns her lesson: judge not a flick by it's apparent content--see and then see.

They drive home, and on the way discuss that she has just now realized that she gets immense satisfaction out of movies and books featuring revenge. She's very excited for Law Abiding Citizen. And not just because Gerard Butler stars. They get home, play with the dog, and then enjoy the rest of the night with chatter and other Activities.

The next morning they wake. She opens her eyes to the dog stretching across her chest seeking petting. They lounge in bed reading the day's headlines. She advocates breakfast out. Mimi's? She suggests she drive him to work, and they can enjoy breakfast on the way. She'll pick him at the day's end and they can catch a late Harry Potter at the adjacent theater; though he already has, she's not yet seen that one.

He agrees. They go through the a.m. rigmarole: showering, dressing, and running product through their short hair, and drive the 20 minutes to the freeway. On the road, they decide that Mimi's might put them behind schedule. So it is back to Whole Foods for another al fresco meal, this one to the lilt of the Saturday morning gossip of a knitting group seated nearby.

He has a breakfast burrito and a bite of cheesecake, because one should have a bite of cheesecake for Saturday breakfast. She has mint water, fruit, and other morning vittles from the food bar she so adores--including some perfectly firm grape tomatoes that taste better than candy, and she's a big fan of candy. She'd really like some of the cheesecake he offers but would rather not loathe herself later; so she declines and enjoys a moment of triumph. In addition to their breakfasts, he gets lunch to go and she grabs a tea for the road. A tea with which she later burns her mouth.

She drops him off at the Apple store for a day of matchmaking and then makes for the grocery store to pick up some pink grapefruit, rock hard nectarines, soy milk, Clif Bars, and cut fruit bowls.

She's home now enjoying a quiet day. She just finished downloading some more Nellie McKay and the Dave Matthews Band's Big Whiskey and the GrooGrux King album. The dog sleeps at her feet. The mint water's not quite gone.

Perhaps she'll go nap now.

Happy Weekend all.

FOR POINTED EXCLAMATIONS

A problem's been festering and I've finally solved it. With rationing.

Rationing exclamation points.

The problem: people use too many of 'em. And the more exclamation points they use, the more imbecilic they appear, especially when they're getting happy with multiples.

So we'll ration them. Three per day. Three to apply throughout all your emails, essays, blog posts, etc., for the day. You only have three. So be choosy.

If you don't use all three in a single day, feel free to stock pile them for another time. Accrue away. That way if you throw an exclamation point party we'll actually pay attention. The mark will mean something. When you employ those pieces of punctuation too frequently, they become nothing more than dotted little boys crying, Wolf! And you make yourself appear as if you do nothing but screech in a high-pitched voice. Which makes you look annoying. And stupid.

If you're judicious with your exclamation points, you might consider selling them. The more intelligent folks can make a buck off the idiots.

Want to write a piece that has 30 incredibly excited bits? Okey dokey. Simply save up your punctuation rations for 10 days and you'll have just enough.

Or I'll sell you some of mine.

WEED

Tonight I will sleep like the dead, for I am fatigued to exhaustion.

I took a vacation day today to weed the backyard. An entire day off. Just for weeding.

Yes, it was as bad as you're guessing.


(I did consider taking a picture of what it looked like before, but some things are best left to the imagination; and I'm already a little low on dignity.)

Because it's tough to tell in the photo, I'll describe the pile's size. It's about five feet tall with a diameter of six feet. Most all of the weeds have nasty stickers, so I spent six hours being grateful for heavy-duty gardening gloves.

Once the pile was complete, the weeds all whacked, I found myself very grateful for 3mm thick, 40 gallon contractor's garbage bags. All five of them that I filled. Filled all by myself, 'cause the mister had to go to work. I am woman. Hear me complain.

We've lived in this house for a little over two years, and the yard still isn't done. I used to have grand plans for the little space, but time, funds, patience, and apathy have whittled my concepts down to the point where I'd be happy with a cement slab, some sprinklers and grass for the dog. But give me a choice between forking out dough for the yard or saving it and the shred of pragmatism I have takes over. No yard. Our poor dog.

Seein' as the back is nothing more than Soph's giant litter box, it doesn't take much time for the entire space to get overrun with weeds the size of which should never be seen. But when the weeds reach the door and make it hard for her to find a place to pee it's time to conquer the chore. So I took a day.

I've never mowed a lawn. And today was my first go with a weed-whacker. Because I don't speak Yard, I started the whacking in jeans, little bronze ballet flats, and a t-shirt. I ended the day in the same jeans, a long-forgotten pair of sneaks, a long-sleeved shirt, the heavy-duty gloves, and my giant sunglasses for eye protection. Because I was out back for six hours, the neighbors had plenty of opportunity to peer out their 2nd story windows into my yard and see a very large bug eradicating the Romos yard of sagebrush and tumbleweeds.

This yard work thing isn't for sissies.

DEMON DAUGHTER

I've mentioned before that, as a teen, I was a colossal bitch. It's likely you read that and chuckled, Oh, me too, Meg! Gosh, what I put my parents through . . . Teenagers can be so awful.

No, really. Raising me was like raising Satan.

No, I didn't sex around. Wasn't a slut. Didn't even smooch a fella until I fell upon the ripe old age of 16. No, I didn't pierce any strange bits. I waited until I was 18 to add an third hole to my right lobe. No, I didn't get boozy. I've never tasted alcohol. I didn't run away from home. Didn't steal. Didn't get expelled or suspended from school. Got acceptable grates. Don't have a tattoo. Never smoked anything. Never diddled with street or prescription drugs.

But I had a mouth on me like you wouldn't believe.

No, it wasn't even the kind of mouth that spews naught but curse words. It was the filthy, hateful, hurtful kind of mouth that goes without a governor, doesn't require refueling, and runs right for the jugular.

And my poor madre was the tongue's most common target of choice.

When rearing the five that came after me, Mom dealt with stereotypical mouthy teens. The others could be nasty, resistant, and sassy, but when battling them she'd think, Bring it on. I've been trained by the best.

Though she's tough and ostensibly unbreakable, I remember making my mom cry one Christmas Day. Her eldest daughter: a world-class shrew.

Have I reformed?

Yes.

And no. I no longer treat everyone like they're a bug to be verbally squished; but I haven't forgotten how. It's still the most violent and effective weapon in my arsenal.

Years ago, my trap housed a tongue quite smooth and symmetrical. No more. I've ground that part into unrecognizable matter through years of biting the heck out of it. The excoriating things I've wanted to spew but have withheld could fill the Library of Congress. Though I'm a woman of error, sin, and do-overs, what will seat me squarely in Hell are the deliciously filthy fantasies I have about using my vicious tongue to inflict irreversible emotional trauma on those I loathe.

Do I sometimes slip and make souls bleed? Absolutely. But with less and less frequency. And I do my best to avoid harming my family; they've had enough. However, attack that family of mine or someone I love (it's a short list) and if the offense is great enough there's a good chance I'll employ my ability to make you cry and get a toe-tingling pleasure out of watching you suffer. I'll grind until I get to your spot most tender and slash at it with my adept tongue until you collapse into a sobbing mass.

I scan bumper stickers and license plate holders that say things like, You call me a bitch like it's a bad thing, and think, You have no idea. I am absolutely positive I can take you.

It's a miraculous thing that I no longer think I need to.

NEVER JUDGE A WOMAN 'TIL YOU'VE RUN A MILE IN HER JEANS

I'm surrounded by denim whores. It started with Caitlyn and Sevens. She bought one pair. Two pair. Some Citizens. Some True Religions. A myriad of other brands I'm too gauche too remember. Suddenly there was over $1,500 of denim in her closet.

The bug was contagious and we all caught it. And why not? For if you can make your backside look a million bucks for just $150, is there any reason not to drop the dough and wriggle right in there? The basically buttless husband wasn't exempt from the denim infection. In fact, these days, I'd say he's the worst of us all.

As of late my shopping is targeted at business wear; I've not purchased a good pair of jeans in the last two years. I've been too busy and too spendy accumulating suits, pumps, skirts, dresses, button-downs, coats, sweaters, and other dull signifiers of the state of my life. However, my grim armamentarium doesn't mean that Casa Romo hasn't been importing its fair share of premium denim; The Husband has been dutifully buying both our shares.

His workwear is a t-shirt and jeans, and he's taking the jeans part to heart. A couple weeks ago I discovered that he has three pairs of the exact same style of True Religion jeans. Granted, they're incredible pants, but three of the same? Dig a little further in his closet and you'll find a jumble of other pricey bottoms.

So last week, after cleaning out my closet and tossing out a batch of bottoms that don't fit my sizable rump, I decided that I needed a new pair of jeans. Because I was feeling thrifty, I went looking on eBay. (Don't worry about authenticity, ladies; thanks to much practice I am a skilled denim buyer on the can-be-shady eBay.) And I found. I came across just the pair I was looking for, and $100 later they were on their way to Sparks.

They arrived and I took them right to my tailor with a pair of slacks that too needed to be made appropriate for the vertically challenged. The Iranian man measured, marked, and pinned each pair. And when I left I told him to be sure to put the original hem back on the jeans. He nodded. They've done it before.

A few days later I dropped by to pick up the pants. As I was paying, I fingered the hem on the denim pair and said to the Iranian man's wife, Obviously it no longer exists, but these were supposed to have the original hem put back on.

We go by the receipts, she said, glaring at me. No apology. Not on her face. In her voice. She stared as if it were my fault.

Well, he wrote it down wrong. It's not as if I knew what was on the receipt he handed me when I dropped off the pants; my hand writing is bad, but his is inexcusable. And now they look cheaply done and I can't wear them.

Well, we do what the receipt says.

That doesn't help me. I signed the receipt, grabbed the hangers and left. I flounced out of the place, and to demonstrate my ire, I dragged the plastic garment bag on the floor on my way out. I'll show her.

I am a nice customer. I am overly apologetic in my daily [in-person] encounters, and it bleeds into my role as a patron. If the dame had at least said Sorry! for the mishap, even insincerely, I'd find my innate apologizer and forgiver her. I'd blame her insincerity on a language barrier. Honest human mistake. Yes, they screwed up my pants, but we can't expect everyone to be perfect all the time.

That shop has shortened around 15 bottoms for me and about 5 for my husband. They've tailored some of his suit jackets and made one of my dresses into a shirt. But because the broad had no air of The Customer's Always Right I'm finding a new tailor. And so better The Husband.

Due to the pants' original hem not really being all that distinct, their mistake didn't actually mean I couldn't wear them. Truth be told, the jeans look just fine. I was just ticked that they screwed up and weren't sorry about it. I brought the jeans home and went right upstairs to try them with a couple different pairs of shoes before packing for my weekend away.

I was aghast to discover that they were snug. Too snug. More snug than when I had left them with the tailor. The kind of snug when breathing is difficult and fat materializes where just seconds earlier it hadn't been prominent. The kind of snug where you need to suck in and squat just to jerk the jeans on. The kind of snug that says, You shouldn't have purchased these in the first place, fatso.

How can this be? This is the brand I buy! I know my size. There are three pair in the closet in the same size! Same fabric make up. I didn't gain weight or get bloated over the week the faulty seamstress had the pants.

Well, it's not like I can send 'em back; I already had the damn things hemmed--and badly.

They were mine now. So I needed to stretch 'em out. I tried all the tricks girls do when endeavoring to stretch out a tight pair of jeans. I wiggled. I squatted. I lunged. Nothin' doin'.

Not to be defeated, I put on a tank top, sports bra, and my running shoes and went downstairs to the treadmill. And spent the next half hour running in my jeans, hoping that the husband wouldn't come home from work and find me jogging in denim.

Do they fit better now? Sure do. Still a little tighter than I'd like, but it's nothing that days of starvation and jogging won't fix, right?

DOUBLE, DOUBLE TOIL AND TROUBLE

Main entry: pot-stirring
Pronunciation: \'pät\ \'stər-iŋ\
Function: verb

1. a) to combine food through agitation
2. a) to rile up b) to turn one party against another c) to influence a situation and then step back to watch d) to make things just a little more exciting

In my family of six sisters, five husbands and two parents (plus three grandkids and one on the way--not mine; you wish in vain), we take turns starring in the role of pot-stirrer.

The Husband is an ignorant pot-stirrer, saying things he absolutely should not, oblivious to the fact that whatever he said was uncalled for, inappropriate, or sacrosanct. Whitney behaves a pot-stirrer because she loves being the one to divvy out information and is a notorious exaggerator. Haley stirs the pot through concerned tattling. I stir through snippy critique and the mere act of speaking my inflammatory and all-encompassing opinions aloud or online.

Within my familial experience, the results of a pot well-stirred include events such as tears, swearing, slurs, slander, libel, gossip, whispers, yelling, and laughter. It can be awfully entertaining and emotionally charging to watch unfold.

We all have our own way agitating a situation. Our Hen Mom is a righteous pot-stirrer, mixing things up for our own good.

Most recently, my ma noticed what she was told could be discord between a couple of her kids, and to deal with it she got her poem on, went blogtastic, and did a job. She made an effort to get her dueling daughters to direct their ire at her instead of one another, perhaps bond together against a common enemy, and find themselves allies and blissfully wrapped in the love they once knew.

However, so far as I've been informed, the problem mother was told was festering is actually on the mend. (The pot-stirring of another daughter is to blame, I'd say). The two tallest of her daughters still exchange clothes, chat while one colors the other's dreadlocks, share basil leaves, and send text messages. Was there a moment of angst? A second of unhappiness? Perhaps. I know not for certain. But being what they are--made of what their mother made them--these two have overcome.

I, for one, admire and encourage it. Sisters should love one another and bond against their mother.

Just kidding. I think the mother's a bit of a meddling genius.

URBAN SPRAWL

I have the best boss. He’s easy to have on a ride along, coaches through encouragement, and flew me to a meeting location on Wednesday evening so that I wouldn’t have to get up at 3AM on Thursday to catch a flight out of Reno and make a connection in Vegas or Phoenix in order to be in San Diego for the 9AM start.

Godlike.

Both he and I were scheduled to fly in on Wednesday, so he used his concierge bitches to book my hotel stay at the same time they did his so that my room was billed at his primo I-travel-way-too-often rate. Once reserved, he changed the room from his name to show up as booked under mine.

Seeing as I’m very busy and important, before traveling to San Diego I had to make Wednesday count. Thus I got up early, tortured myself on the treadmill, did shower and such, snagged a granola bar and zipped out the door to hit the streets. I drove down to Carson City, visited two offices, and then made my way (quite like the proverbial bat out of Hell) back to Reno for a lunch appointment.

I did the lunch song and dance, hit two more offices, and then zoomed back home to meet The Husband so that he could drop me off at the airport. (When I am doing a multi-day out-of-towner I prefer to have my dude retrieve me from the airport when I return rather than parking at long-term before I depart and ferrying myself home; makes me feel less isolated that way.)

Already feeling the effects of the day-to-day part of my day, I nestled in at the gate to wait to board and to phone tech support for a belated installation that didn’t get it all the way done before boarding. Once on the cattle car, I selected an aisle chair and started shuffling through my previously neglected prework materials. From Lindbergh Field I took a taxi to my hotel, and during the 20 minute ride fantasized about the soft white beds at the Marriott Gaslamp.

I clacked and rolled up to a front desk strewn with enormous candy dishes and lit with colorful bulbs. Making eye contact with an unoccupied clerk, I made my way forward, saying, Romo. Checking in.

She tapped at her keyboard. And tapped some more. And couldn’t locate my reservation.

First name?

Megan. Megan Romo.

More tapping. No finding.

Could it be under another name? she inquired.

From the fog of fatigue I remembered our initial booking arrangement and said, Oh! Yes, it could. I’m so beat that I forgot. Check under Will Madsen.

Click. Clack. Tap tap.

Ah. Here it is . . .

She ran my card and asked how many card keys I wanted.

Two, I told her. The stay was only for a night but I invariably get a dud key that won’t open the door and have to handle the inconvenience of calling down for a new door-opener. Preventative measures born of experience dictate a back up key for expediency.

You’re in room 1923, she said, gesturing towards the elevator bank, You’ll need to use your keycard to get up there.

I boarded the lift alone and once the doors were closed, I sighed. I allowed my mind to luxuriate in the thought of opening my door, rolling a few feet, dropping my bag, and collapsing onto the bed.

To a jarring, ding!, I arrived on the 19th floor and wheeled my way to my room. Key card in. Door open.

There, on the bed, set out neatly on top of a suitcase, I saw a man’s casual shirt and jeans. A shirt and jeans of which I recognized the taste.

OhmygoshOhmygoshOhmygoshOhmygosh! She gave me the keys to my bosses room!

My eyes bugged out of my head, my heart started to bounce back and forth in my chest, and as fast as I could—before my manager could do something terrible like immerge from the bathroom in a towel, or worse, not in a towel—I backed out of the room.

I jerked back so quickly that I stumbled back onto my bag, snagged my heel in the dangling strap, hopped a couple times to try to catch my balance and untangle, lost my that balance, and tumbled over the top of my bag, falling onto my stomach on the hallway floor. Fortunate, I pulled the door shut with me.

Unfortunately, a bellboy a few feet down the hall was a spectator to the discovery and subsequent dance.

I’m so sorry. I told him, doing what I do—apologizing when there’s nothing to apologize for, I’m really very sorry.

The cute twenty-something surfer-by-sunrise-bellboy-by-night avoided laughing at the exhibition and smiled, asking, Are you okay?

Oh, yes, I replied, now on my hands and knees and still held hostage by my luggage, I’m sorry.

I found my feet, again got my heel caught in the strap of my bag, tripped over it, but this time managing to remain upright, and made for the elevator where the bellboy was holding the door for me.

Inside and on our way down, he asked, So how’s your day so far?

Trying to untangle my carry-on from my mean-spirited bag I said, Uh, a little harried so far.

He didn’t know what to say back, apparently, for he kept his tan, attractive face from emitting sound or changing expression.

Returned to the lobby, I rushed back to the front desk, seeing the huge bowl of salt water taffy and considering burying my face in it, and nearly threw the two keycards to room 1923 in the clerk's face. (Not unkindly; I just wanted to get rid of the things.) You gave me the keys to his room! I exclaimed. Throw them a-way! Far away.

The little clerk displayed mortification and went digging for my real reservation which she finally located under my own name.

Promise me that no one else is in that room, I said.

I promise. It’s all yours.

And though when I arrived in room 903 I opened the door slowly and walked in with trepidation, thankfully, it was.

MO[RN]HAWK

I've been dying to share a picture of this new haircut's version of bedhead.

Finally, this a.m., I remembered to employ my computer's capture capabilities to snag a sleepy just-rolled-from-the-sheets self portrait (some share only the most glamorous of shots; me--well, you're already acquainted with the ardor I feel for reality):

So a belated top o' the mornin' to ya on this deliciously lazy free-from-all-labor day.

MORE FROM THE ROAD

I spent this last weekend in Utah, and this go-‘round, rather than taking my car I took a plane. Knowing that my there-leg didn’t include eight hours of America’s ugliest country and that I wouldn’t have to spend the weekend dreading an eight-hour drive home, I felt the trip merited more excitement than my usual Utah getaways.

I spent Wednesday night in a San Diego Marriott for a Thursday meeting. On Thursday evening I flew from Lindbergh Field to SLC International for a three-day weekend of sisters, parents, Rookie’s cooking, new niece Addison’s baby blessing, Rabid for dinner (as a guest, not the main course), Buffy’s magic applied to my brows, and a Cat-trim of my new ‘do (which I like today).

If never you’ve made your way out of the Salt Lake City International Airport on the Sunday before a holiday, I highly recommend the experience. No lines. No bustle. A bee-line for the e-ticket kiosk. Airline employes unhurried and smiling. Not a soul holding me up at security. And I made my way to gate B13 gate to the echo of my own footfalls tapping past empty gates. The usually-bustling Delta hub was a tomb. And a welcome change from the chaos that is my usual experience when flying.

I arrived at my gate to the sight of a couple travelers but not many. I had my pick of the conjoined pleather seats. So I took two. One for me. One for my bag. I crossed my legs up underneath me and dailed The Husband for a weekend recap. Once he was all the way inside the loop, content with information and nearing annoyance with my drivel, I released him and broke out the computer on which I write this and began the task of journeying through my five-days-neglected personal email.

While I scrolled and typed a fellow Sunday traveler plopped down next to me. Because I am a frequent flier and adept at airport etiquette, I picked up my bag and scooted into its seat, allowing the seat I previously perched in to serve as that customary barrier between strangers of the West.

Thanks, the almost-attractive-but-not-quite middle-aged man said. I didn’t want you to think I was hitting on you without knowing your name.

I smiled and apologized for taking up two seats in the first place. And wondered why the heck he hadn’t settled into one of the many vacant seats on the rows behind me. Relocated into my bag’s spot, I continued rifling through my emails, answering and eliminating.

The man's voice entered my consciousness, Is that one of those new notebook computers? he asked.

I looked up, Excuse me?

Is that one of those new computers just for Internet and stuff?

Having not an inkling as to what he referred, I replied Oh, no. It’s just a tablet computer, swiveling the screen to show what I meant.

Wow. That’s really terrific, he said. I do a lot of sales presentations and that would be great for me.

Actually, I countered, it’s not as great as you might think. I too work in sales and when hauling this thing around all day you get to understand how heavy and cumbersome it is.

He heaved his hefty laptop out of his bag to show me, It could be like this, he said.

Good grief, I exclaimed, I’ll shut up and be grateful for mine. And then I returned to said machine and the email rigmarole.

A couple minutes later he leaned over and lightly waved his boarding pass within my scope. I looked up quizzically. He moved it closer to my view. Uhm, what am I supposed to see, I asked him. Did he want me to know his name? Where he was going?

Are you in front of me or behind me? he asked.

We were flying Southwest, and I noted that he was boarding number A31 and responded, Behind you. I’m A57.

That’s too bad , he said. I was hoping you were in front of me so that I could sit next to you. You have beautiful eyes.

I laughed in a tone that I hope was pleasant and didn’t betray how disturbing I thought he was and said, Oh, how kind. Thank you. Before shifting my eyes back to my screen I snuck a glance at his ring finger seeking for evidence of a marriage. None. I wondered why he didn’t take note of the Taken beacon on my left hand. Our exchange could have been a pleasant and common conversation between travelers until he complemented my eyes, when in reality--I promise you--my peepers are nice but nothing spectacular and certainly not bits that merit frequent complements from strangers.

I could save you a seat, he offered.

Well that’s awfully nice of you, I said, not looking up from my machine this time.

I’m an aisle guy, he continued.

I looked up at him, Oh, well so am I. Too bad.

Why do you like the aisle?

Is this guy ever going to shut up and leave me alone? Eyes back on my screen and fingers tentatively typing--for talking and typing is no piece of cake; I end up typing what I’m saying or hearing--I answered, It’s less cramped that way.

I get claustrophobic, he said.

Still concentrating on my screen I said, Well, a plane is an excellent place to feel claustrophobic.

I might get the aisle seat and then when I see you I could move to the window and we could have a chair between us. He motioned to the chair currently protecting me from any unpleasant odors he might be discharging, More room and we can talk. Do you think that would work?

Making good eye contact with my gmail, I returned with vaguery, You’ll probably have more space; it’s just a half full flight.

Suddenly, he seemed to realize that I was occupied, and he apologized for intruding.

Ever the sweet traveler, I said, Oh, you’re fine and kept typing.

Once on the plane, I looked down the aisle for the nearest empty aisle seat and my eyes fell upon the guy who liked my eyes. He was five rows back and smiling up at me.

I pretended not to see him and sat in the empty aisle seat right in front of his.

Creep.

When encountering interlopers such as this fellow and the geezer from last week I really do try be kind but curt, however, I've come to believe that even a hint of benevolence eggs on these guys.

I don’t want them to think that I’m interested in whatever offer trips along their rancid breath, but I don’t want to ignore them or be a snob, for I’m genuinely afraid that if I am a bitch to a stranger they will put me on their rape list. (Because of course rapists keep a list, Megan.) The stranger might be wholly innocent. They may truly think I have beautiful eyes and aren’t hitting on me at all just gifting a fellow traveler a compliment, but they could be a vengeful rapist, and if I’m a brat they might pinpoint me as a target. But then, if they’re not vengeful and just a rapist they might see me as an easy, less-resistant target. I can’t win.

GI UPSET

I am a drug rep. Since becoming one I've come to see and speak the world a little differently. For instance, because I've pedaled gastrointestinal drugs I'm now very comfortable discussing fecal matter, evacuation, bulking agents, and stool habits, though I am sickened when blogs feature posts on potty training processes. For if we're talking digestive results, my clinical hat is on; and my personal prism dictates that potty training isn't deserving of that particular beanie--so let's not have to hear or talk about it at all.

However, I have no issue discussing or reading about mucus or blood in the stool, diarrhea, constipation, and improving bowel motility. And it's not just with physicians and their cohorts that I'm at ease addressing these subjects; I'm completely comfortable speaking of GI issues with family and friends. And when discussing the matter, it is stool or fecal matter; it's not poop, crap, sh*t, or any other informal euphemism.

(Though the colloquial terminology Gastroenterologists enjoy can be pretty coarse. In one office I used to call on, reps waited for the doctor in a designated patient room. While waiting and rolling around on the doctor's chair--just kidding, I can't let myself do that; I always stand patiently while my feet threaten to throb right off my cankles--I was examining all the imagery scattered about the room. A colon model inflicted with every unpleasantly imaginable. A nearly-dead kidney model. A poster of the entire GI tract riddled with ulcers, polyps, and lesions. When the doctor finally dropped in to see me, I said, Doc, I think if you leave patients in here waiting long enough your 'artwork' is going to scare them to death. His response: What can I say? I have a pretty sh*tty job!)

When I called on Gastros I often kidded that if everyone had regular bowel motility there would be fewer car accidents, more summer picnics, winking at strangers would become a habit, and, as a whole, we'd verge on world peace.

So we meet, you and I, and I learn that you've recently experienced some bothersome gastrointestinal upset. Don't be surprised if I start artfully digging and making you slightly uncomfortable with some of the language I use and what I'm not bashful about discussing. I only want to help. You and everyone who knows you. And my helpful goal is to get you to go visit a Gastro or, if you've already been, to induce you to agree to get scoped. It's really not that scary.

And there's a chance that if you do go through with an endoscopy procedure you'll be put out with propyphol, "the Michael Jackson drug" as we're terming it these days, and the 30 minutes you're out will be the best 14 hours of sleep you've ever banked in your life.