ETIQUETTE & PROTOCALL

Thanks to what seems like putting a gazillion miles on my vehicle, I’m a frequent flier at some of Reno's various auto shop waiting rooms. Each and every one is perfumed by a distinct fragrance with notes of rubber and oil spill. And each and every one has a television blaring whatever program is on at the moment that is the program dead last on my to-watch list. But if I’m alone in the room, I ask the shop attendants to please mute the teevee or at knock down the volume a few hundred notches.

This morning I found myself at Pep Boys waiting for a headlight fix and was delighted to find that the waiting room was all mine. A cashier attended to my wish for volume reduction—I could’t reach and they keep the remote wisely hidden—so that I could bust out the laptop and make use of the time without the distraction of whatever nonsense was blasting above my head.

No sooner had I opened my computer than an old dude ambled in to wait for his car. (Hah! I thought, I win! Get yerself a magazine. There will be no Artificially Inseminated Transvestite Tweens of Rubicon Valley for you, mister!)

And no sooner had he settled into his chair with a disintegrating periodical than my phone buzzed with a work call that really I needed to take.

Now cell phone etiquette is a thing for me. One of my mostest favoritest “compliments” that I've received was when Rabid told me that she appreciated how I left my phone alone during out first lunch out together. I was tickled that she noticed. (It also confirmed for me that she was everything I’d hoped she’d be.)

Never answer a cell phone when you’re at a restaurant with companions of any kind—friends, colleagues, family, anyone. If you’re anticipating an important call during the meal, alert your company that you’ll be keeping an eye on the phone off and on, and then once the call comes, beat it. Leave the table and go to the lobby or, better yet, outside to handle the call. Talking on a cell when you’re with people—formal or familiar—is rude.

And that goes for being at home too. When you’ve got company over, ditch the cell. When you’re the company, ditch the cell. When you’re watching a movie with just the people that live in your own home, ditch the cell. If a call comes, make haste to the next room. Cell phone conversations have no business being broadcast as interruptions to those around you.

Taking your conversations into a private space is polite to the people you’re with and polite to the person on the other end of the line. Take yourself away from distraction so that they get your full attention.

(I wish it went without saying, but it’s also unacceptable to answer your phone while being examined by your doctor. Oh how I wish that went without saying.)

So that left me with a bit of an issue. I needed to take the call, but I wasn’t alone in the room anymore. And my computer and papers were sort of spread out on the two seats next to me, so I could’t quickly get up to leave.

So I broke my rule and answered the phone. I did my best to speak softly and in clipped responses, not so much to keep information private as to be polite to guy resigned to flipping through Woman’s Day October 2007.

The conversation lasted eight minutes—about six minutes longer than I would have liked.

When I was done I apologized to the man, telling him that though I know it’s rude to talk on a phone in public, it was a work call and I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to get the caller on the phone later in the day. I said that I’m sorry if I disturbed him.

No problem, he said, I might’ve learned something new.

It was a terrific thing to say for two reasons: one, it was kind, and two, it was an unabashed admission that he was actively eavesdropping, as is I believe the right of bystanders when someone is rudely talking on the phone in an elevator or waiting room. Lean in, listen up, see what you can snatch. If you’re going to be disturbed by someone else’s conversation you may as well see what you can get out of it.

PARKING LESSON

There isn’t a break. There isn’t a spot. It’s just lines of cars with nowhere to put mine. Not only does this hospital parking garage have too-snug spaces, but there simply isn’t one of them for me.

Oh, wait—right there. Finally. (This was getting ridiculous.)

Aw, dammit. That beater Pontiac’s overlapping into my space.

. . . but I think I can juuust fit.

I swing into the space and have to park off to the right. My tires are right on the line. There’s not much room to open the doors on the fatty Escalade next to me. But it was the best I could do. There ain’t another spot in this whole garage.

I turn off the car and open my computer to prepare for the next doctor’s office.

Moments later: Thwack!

I jump.

On my right, people had returned to their SUV, and there was some extra force behind that driver’s door opening. I think the she was mad that I’m nearly in her space. I’m certain she doesn’t know I’m in here. And I’m bettin’ she wants to teach the loser driver of this car a lesson. That’ll show you. Stay in your own space. Don’t want retribution? Don’t crowd me.

I must be in some reflective mood, because she does teach me a lesson. (Though I don’t think it’s the one she intended.) Even money says that the lady that slammed her car door into mine considered me careless ass, taking up more space than I should have, not paying attention when I parked. But I’ll also bet she didn’t take the time to notice that I was forced to part off-center thanks to the Pontiac on my left. And perhaps they had to park off-center because of the car next to them and so on. Car dominoes. My lesson: Don’t get your panties in a twist over someone’s seemingly inconsiderate actions—you really don’t know why they’re behaving that way do you?

Now of course I have more than just a few exceptions to that. I don’t care what kind of bad day you’ve been having—you do not get to yell at the receptionist at your doctor’s office, you do not get to hurt animals, you do not get to hurt your kids. But for me, right now, with this thing in the parking garage, I learned a little something. All thanks to a new dent in my fleet car’s passenger-side door.

BESTFED

A new baby is born.

The new mom and dad are ecstatic. A life to mold! A little thing to brainwash! The extended family gets giddy, bestowing the baby with a whole lot of hideous clothes without receipts for returning. The friends of the family smile with lotsa teeth and offer to bring over casseroles laden with cream of what-the-hell-is-that-supposed-to-be soup. And when they drop by—unannounced, cornflake encrusted casserole in hand—they begin the chitchat.

How much does she weigh? How long was the labor? How are you feeling? Getting much sleep?
And my very favorite: Are you breastfeeding baby Gertrude?

Hmmm.

The other questions are benign—the kind that lead one to believe that this is just a polite conversation between casserole giver and casserole receiver. But that last one, that question is along a line so personal that I'd call it inappropriate.

When assaulted with such a query, I sure wish that from time to time a new mom would step right over the question and toss back something like, Huh. Seeing as it appears that today's activities include dashing about in the Realm of Improper, I myself would like to know if your bowel movements have been especially satisfying lately.

Whatever liquid gold or swamp muck is dribbling from a gal's boobs isn't anyone's business before she has a baby. That being the case, I can't think of a single good reason that the bounty of one's jumblies would be the kind of thing for civilized conversation post spawning spawn.

Every so often I get my hackles all the way up over something. Sometimes the something is a repeat engagement. Like this time. Right now I find myself again fired up over ta-tas and what leaketh from 'em. Two of my sisters just had babies, and when teeny humans make their debut, the adults swirling about settle into discussions on how the mothers plan to feed them. Those conversations never fail to get my bonnet bees' abuzz.

A few weeks ago I was having a conversation with a someone and the words we bandied back and forth turned to the topic of food and such. It came up, in the logical course of the conversation, that I'm whatcha might call a vegetarian. When this person heard such news, they morphed into something akin to a monster. That is so stupid! the person spewed. People who don't eat meat are just posing morons . . . yadda yadda yadda.

Stunned is a good word for how I felt right then. We went from polite to unbelievable in, like, 2 seconds. Now, if you know me at all you know that I take issue with vegetarians pressing their meatless agenda on everyone that they can. I do the no meat thing. You do the meat thing. To each their own. Seriously.

It is absolutely no one else's concern that I feel comfy in a fleshless life. My mom has a favorite saying: What you think of me is none of my business. Think on it. It's applicable here. What you think of my choice of food is none of my business. Exercise a little social propriety and keep it to yourself.

A correlation: How you choose to jam nutrition into your new-to-oxygen infant's trap is none of my business. And it's not anyone else's business either. Why then, Dear Reader, do so many people (read: women of an insecure and immature state) take it upon themselves to hoist the Breastfeeding Cross and behave as oppressive lactation champions, doing whatever they think works in their quest to get every infant on an IV drip of Milk of Motherhood no matter the circumstances?

An irony: Some of those same brats that use their megaphones to lament and decry the tragedy of a bottle fed babe are the same people who feed their kidlets processed crap once the thing's entered the solid food stage. So for the first year of the child's life there is one and only one way to properly feed an infant, but once it's socially perverse to stick a human nipple in the kiddo's mouth, it's perfectly acceptable to introduce partially hydrogenated oils and high fructose corn syrup into the precious, preserved, and pristine little digestive tracts? Well ain't that just tossing out el bebe with the bath agua? It's like scrubbing your house shiny and then letting a pack of muddy Rottweilers have their way with the place.

So—with your right-out-loud actions—are you trying to tell me that a child's nutrition only matters during year one (or so)? That once they are off the tit, it's a continuation of your superior parenting to head for inferior nutrition?

I'm saying right here and right now that I'd wouldn't hesitate to fiercely slap across the mug someone who gallops around on their Breast and Only Breast high horse and then tosses their kindergartner a Lunchable without a second thought. That kind of hypocrisy rubs me raw.

To each their own is honest-to-goodnessly the way I try to live. And I get bent right out of shape when hypocrites open their traps to condemn or sublimely encourage a feeling of inadequacy. Especially when it comes to breastfeeding. Nope, I don't have a kid, so what you're getting from here now isn't an opinion born of personal experience but one rather built of observations, conversations, and good old fashioned research. I get that on the topic of infant nutrition this leaves my credibility in the toilet. Be that as it may. But I am a really bright girl with a lively mind and healthy intellectual curiosity for many a thing. When the topic is breastfeeding, though I've no tales of my own regarding the juices of motherhood, I'm convinced that the various confidences I've been granted and the whatnot that I've observed settles me on solid ground in forming and dispersing my own opinions on the topic.

If breast works for you and your family, rock on. If it doesn't, same deal. Do what's best for the bitsy social unit you've got responsibility for no matter the opinions of others and the social pressures crashing down upon you. If a baby needs feeding—and all of them do—the only thing that should matter is the fact that a conscientous parent is doing their best to fill the baby's belly with stuff to make it grow.

Have an opinion. No, really—do. To intelligently opine is to craft and form and create, and I hold that therein lies an element of divinity. But be careful with what you make. If you stamp those opinions on your forehead and make a meal of those who don't wear the same, you're in for humiliation. (Listen here, y'all; The Voice of Experience speaks). If you're a Boob Juice Crusader and take no issue with feeding your progeny manufactured junk once they're sporting their very own collection of pearly whites, a pit of shame awaits your wallowing.

Furthermore, if you're serving as your baby's portable dairy and pouring processed crap down your gullet, you are mistaken if you believe that what drips from your nips is drops of divinity. The inconstancy in your particular brand of parenting makes you a hypocrite and meat for mockery. Pucker up so that you can give credibility a big wet kiss goodbye.

ONE MORE THING TODAY

A presently nagging petty pet peeve of mine: when folksies can't spell queue. Que is not a word. It doesn't mean line like queue does. One more time: que isn't a word.

McCARRAN INTERNATIONAL

There are thousands of chairs in McCarran airport.

But the only one that seemed to have my name on it was a Naugahyde beauty across from a bar.

A bar in Las Vegas' McCarran airport is a loud place. And an incredibly unattractive one. It's here that you find the confused. The middle-agers come to Vegas with friends, wrapped in the promise of an uninhibited weekend to remember. A weekend of things that stay right here.

This bar, a gloomy corner clad in distressed Corona surfboards and dusty lifejackets designed to make the boozers feel just beachy, spews inebriated couples of the Not Quite There And Aint' Never Gonna Get There variety. They're dressed in their best, but it looks cheap. Their hairstyles are almost current. The husbands wear khaki shorts, and the wives sport denim capris. And they flaunt their corporeal selves with an air that tells me that they're convinced that they're attractive. (They're wrong.)

Today they are bona fide boozers; for when you're in Sin City casual drinking simply isn't sociable. Here, you don't just have a drink to settle your nerves. Or knock one back to take the edge off. No, silly. We're in Vegas! Even if it is just the airport and the realities of returning to work await in the morrow.

The Vegas airport in all its plastic chrome-plated wonder embarrasses itself, trying to be a glitzy extension of the strip, a place where tourists can exert a last-ditch effort in maintaining the kind of buzz that deludes 'em into thinking they're hot and that the weekend they just had was racy, glamorous, and damn-near R-rated when the truth is that they spent the last three days walking up and down The Strip with a giant plastic souvenir cup full of a watered down margarita--past Mexicans slapping porn fliers and shoving them into unsuspecting hands--trying to find this mythical party that the topless sparkle of Las Vegas promises.

But these pathetic vacationers aren't all that McCarran's giving me right now. I'm also blessed with six or seven retirees guffawing over Betty White on Saturday Night Live. "Good Laws!" they yell (hearing aids all), "That Betty White's not as prim and proper as you'd think!" Duh, mister. Ever seen Boston Legal?

People who sit on the floor of the airport baffle me. I'd much rather stand, leaning against a wall, and wait for my feet to fall off from fatigue. Don't tell me you can't find a suitable seat. I'm right here next to the boisterous bar and lively retirees, and, my my!, there's an empty seat right next to me. And, my schmutzy friend--didn't you hear?--now Southwest assigns each passenger their very own boarding number. Sitting on the floor waiting by the gate isn't going to get you aboard our flying cattle car any faster. On top of that, the flight to Reno is all of an hour. I'm pretty sure that you can sit in a less-desirable seat for the duration and not keel over. I believe in you.

One more thing: people that travel with the pillows from their beds give me the creeps. Here's the deal: not only is my mind a lively one, but it's a highly visual one as well. I see your pillow in its striped and dingy pillowcase and think, Good grief. That's the pillow that bolsters your head during coitus, isn't it? And then that lively and visual mind of mine goes about painting a picture, a grotesque image of the pillow-toter in mediocre rapture.

(I wanted you to see the ceiling at McCarran in case you've never had the pleasure. Pray that I find the time to tell you why I look so fatigued (even after cloning out some of the dark circling under my eyes). It's a good story.)

•••

This post brought to you by my new MBP (that's MacBook Pro, for those of you who aren't married to an Apple wonder and in on all the lingo). I've gone mobile! I'm in love . . . (with the machine and the man that gifted it to me. What a dream!)

HUMAN JUXTAPOSITION

How is it that we are so different?

How is it that from birth the bifurcation spreads so widely?

A few nights ago, outside my yoga studio, I observed a man at the motel across the street vehemently scream at his dog. Berating an animal that through tone alone is able to understand communication. The words he used, the threats he made, the volume he employed, and the tone he wrapped all of it in granted me a snapshot of this man’s character. A lesser human. A beast in need of that reconditioning I asked about last week.

I dropped into my car, cried off all of my makeup, and verbally asked myself how it is that I can live in a world where such base cruelty is common, acceptable, and unregulated.

The next day, seated in that same driver’s seat, I listened to a collection of biographies of influential women. Included amongst the dames of note was Anne Sullivan, Helen Keller’s lifelong teacher and friend. I listened to accounts of Ms. Sullivan’s determination, kindness, encouragement, and limitless patience with a feeling of astonishment similar to that which I’d felt the night before. The same feeling with a different impetus.

How is it that people of the caliber of Ms. Sullivan, for they surely exist today, can tread the same dirt as the man who threatened his dog with death by truck?

We have hate. We have love. We have indifference. We have passion.

We have that and so much more all smashed together on a single rock suspended in space.

Though sometimes violently opinionated, I most generally find myself in a state of appreciation for differences. Differences are our teachers. We see and we emulate or discard as disparate. Today however, my enthusiasm for human variance is absent.

I don’t want people like that hateful man. I don’t want their example as a cautionary tale. I don’t feel that they are necessary to my development or to help yours.

From our genesis, we’re given the gift to choose. And choose we do, more often than not, without preceding thought. My choices are not yours. And yours certainly aren’t mine. I take pride in my decisions and my understanding of their consequences good or bad. I hope that you live the same.

And I hope that men like the one I saw just days ago are required to endure consequences appropriate to their significant flaws in character, for that’s the only way I can understand how it is that we have to inhabit such a dichotomous joke.

MARTIN AND ME

I did it.

I fixed it.

I'm rather heroic.

He's a notorious jerk, and I charmed him.

I'm a charmer.

The dude is a front desk fellow in one of my offices. Front desk means that he's the gatekeeper--he determines whether or not I get to go the back office. And no matter if the answer is yay or nay, he's never nice when he gives it to me.

Instead, he's a jerk.

All. The. Time.

But I charmed him.

I have a few offices I dread going into, but this guy makes them look like a never-ending housewarming party, earning himself the the notoriety of being a dude I'd really like to punch in the teeth.

Approaching his window, I blinked a few times, stretched out my mouth (in preparation for over-the-top, ingratiating smileage), put on my Earnest Face, took a deep breath, and assured myself that it would all be over soon.

I arrived at the counter and he looked up at me, familiar sneer on his mug. The panel of the glass he perched behind was closed. Some offices don't like outsiders to touch their glass, and not knowing if this was one of those, I didn't slide it open. There was a crack between the panel and the wall, so I knew he could hear me, thus I started addressing him with the glass shut.

He looked at me, glared, and then, with an air of exasperation for all mortals lesser than he (that means you, me and every other bit of vermin making Mother Earth the Hell he lives on) motioned for me to slide the panel.

I did so and apologized for not opening it in the first place, explaining that it was out of cautionary politeness.

He shushed me and asked who I was there to see.

I said that I was looking for an administrator, Vera Wagner. He barked that they had no one there with that name.

I started thumbing through my phone, looking for her email to make sure I had the right name when he asked if I meant Vera Hansen. I did and I thanked him profusely for so kindly rectifying my error.

He told me that it's important to keep names straight or he can't help me out.

I expressed regret for my incredibly stupid and negligent error, telling him that I was just home from a conference and was feeling that Monday frazzle. You know the one, when you're just all over the place. Don't you just hate those days?

I'm never all over the place.

Short rep can't get a friggin' break.

He snatched my proffered business card to compare with the scheduled appointments. While he was looking, I executed reconnaissance, scanning his workspace for items of commonality or pride.

I struck gold.

Er, Golden Retrievers, that is.

I indicated the plethora of pictures and asked if they were, in fact, Goldens.

He grunted the affirmative.

I gushed about how much I love dogs. 'Cause they're just so much better than people, aren't they?

He gave me something that could have resembled the verge of a smile and said that he agreed.

Bonus for me as I already knew he hated all humankind.

I asked him how many pups he had, how old they were, what were their names, etc. (You know, the questions commonly reserved for parents of human children.)

Suddenly, I was breaking through, for, along with the answers to all my questions, he informed me that he had recently seen Marley and Me on TV and because of how much he loves his canine pals, it was a tough show for him to finish.

I congratulated him on his fortitude and replied that the dog's death was why I refused to see that flick. We commiserated over the utter horror of putting a dog down.

Once he permitted me to go back to Vera's office, I did so.

On my way out after my meeting, the dog lover told me that I was missing some of the forms the office required reps to have on file.

I inquired what they were.

He informed me.

I turned on my Wide-eyed Innocence and apologized for not having them in, telling him that it can be so tough to be new and bumbling your way around.

I then wished him a good day.

He actually smiled and said, You too, sweetie.

Bingo.

I win.

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.

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.

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.

ULTIMATE IDIOCY

Ultimate Fighting is a sign of social degeneration. Regression back to a era when crowds packed themselves into coliseums to be entertained by gang-rapes of exotic women, lions tearing into slaves, and men slashing to the death.

I’m not a fan of boxing. I think the event uncivilized. It appeals to our most base selves, teasing the Natural Man that we really ought to strive to kill. Ultimate Fighting moves beyond that appeal to the basest of selves, speaking to whatever devil might lurk within us. For a group of humans--beings gifted with intelligence, beings with the ability to create art--to crowd together with the intent cheer on physical violence is an indication of the pathetic direction in which we’ve sent ourselves.

The barbarism that’s apparent in encouraging gruesome sport turns my stomach, as--though I support, encourage, and enjoy recreation and leisure time--we human beings really should be being more. We have history to tell us what happens to societies that indulge in violence as sport. We have the knowledge of what kind of a change a single person can instill. Yet we find entertainment in people choosing to reduce themselves to raging beasts.

Appropriately, we punish people who organize dog fighting and the like; yet we permit the same kind of caged combat using humans to be shown and celebrated on television. Not like controlled, staged, choreographed violence in cinema, but graphic, gross, detrimental physical contact. And through watching it, and recording it, and attending it, we show our approval of it.

We are disgusting.

(And when I say we, of course I don’t mean me.)

WEAPONIZING SPACE

Sometimes a blog is for wielding. Like a weapon.

Because a blog is a forum of the unseen, it can feel like a safe place to field or launch an offensive. But a specifically unspecific one.

There are instances wherein I take the opportunity to let certain readers know that I know they're there. Or I'll put together a post about an unsavory exchange with a someone in particular because it's lit me up and I think it's worth writing about. But I do this without revealing the name or the title of my target. Though they know who they are.

It may appear cowardly for me to avoid the specifics of a name, but it's actually a splash of kindness. Unless what my target has committed is horrifically egregious, too personally directed, or pointed at someone in my family, I allow them to remain anonymous. Why do I grant them this courtesy when I've clearly taken issue with them? The answer is quite simply you.

Thanks to links from a certain blogosphere celebrity (see how I'm allowing her to remain anonymous--as if that were possible), many people have encountered Remarks from Sparks; but because this isn't a blog littered with motherly anecdotes, voyeuristically satisfying photos of kids, recipes, or post after post trashed with stuff I want, only a handful of the newcomers stay.

I'm not only okay with this. It pleases me. For the readers that do stick around are weeded-out treasures; all with a sense of humor about themselves and the world, they're the hearty, the passionate, and the thick-skinned (or the self-immolating and morbidly curious, but it's not of those I speak). They read my Remarks with the understanding that I might publish something that slaps close to home, but they've learned that it's really not directed at them, and who am I that they should care if it were? They understand that when arriving at this URL they'll be encountering some inconsequential person's direct, considered digressions and that there is no reason for them to find offense or invest their emotions in what I write.

Many of the readers that stay are also the kind of readers who get incensed. So there's the chance that if I'm mid attack and use a name or leave a link, the most brazen of you will do what you do, perhaps allowing my Remarks to influence an opinion, and you'll hop on the offensive, taking on a battle that you need not. Whatever issue I'm cryptically covering is between me and the precise target. That's why I don't give you their name. It doesn't serve any practical purpose. When I post about a less-lovely interaction I'm merely telling you bits to entertain or spark thought, not prompting you to suit up and go get 'em.

There are also times that I write something pointed at a specific someone and the readers who aren't they have no idea that the post is one with an agenda. To them it reads like regular Megan. But the individual who is the aim of my words can make no mistake in understanding about whom and what I speak. And I welcome them to open up a dialogue--it's that kind of thing that grants clarity.

Why do this? Why weaponize my online space? So that I do less weaponizing in my offline space.

I have the capacity to be an explosive person. A firecracker of sorts. My verbal explosions have become more infrequent as I've developed better control over my mouth and have come to see their ineffectiveness. But I'm still very often aflame.

I don't feel lightly. I don't react small. I tend to hurl myself at things--issues, projects, improvements, relationships. If I'm going to do something, I'm going to really do it. It's a personality trait, and it bleeds into how I embrace reactions.

So when I get my knickers knotted over something a someone's done or said, I feel such a build up of whatever emotion attaches itself to that experience that I have to set at least a fleck of it free.

Yes, I could privately write down my detonation with every detail I deem inappropriate for this space and then shred the paper; I've done that before. But I've learned that it's more satisfying for me to write and press Publish Post. That way someone else out there picks up my tone and gets a little feel for my feelings. And then I feel cleansed.

CALLING GUARD

The world in which I operate is one of conference calls. Everyone converging to meet, yet not needing to leave the comfort of their personal office (or if we're talking one of those delightful 6AM ones, the comfort of their pajamas).

So long as the person conducting the call has a pretty strict agenda and sticks to it, the calls are generally bearable even productive. But if the HNIC doesn't have a good grip on the orders of business, things can get out of control.

And then the Oblivious step in.

To be honest, I don't mind a conference call; I generally hang up having received the prize of New Information and move on with my day with ease. However, when the Oblivious think that a conference call of 30 people is the time to ask their manager questions regarding them personally or regarding their specific territory concerns, I want to shake 'em to awareness.

Dude.

When you're on a call of many people who have a day to do and aren't affiliated with your territory or vacation days, hold your questions until you can get the boss offline, when you're through with the public forum.

It's that just the polite thing to do?

A COW'S OPINION

To the general public:

It is not a "Queue-pon."
It's not "eXspecially."
It's not "supposeBly."
It's not a "mUte point."

Let's say that again: It's not a "mute" point. It's moot. (This tidbit may call to mind Joey's "moo" point, but right now we're talking mute.)

As I'd hope everyone's does, my job brings me into contact with some very smart people. People so smart they make you feel really dumb. Like you should pick up your toys and head back to nursery school where you belong. But my job also brings me in contact with some very mistaken people. People so mistaken that they make you feel really informed.

People who think the common expression is "it's a mute point." Mute. As in silent. As in you can't hear it. As in unable to speak. As in dumb.

When really, they're the ones who are dumb (different meaning, unfortunately), for the expression does not contain the word "mute" but rather "moot." And this point I'm making is not moot. When I hear someone tell me something is "a mute point" (and I wish I could say it's only happened once or twice) I have to turn my head so that they don't see me trying to stifle my laughter at them.

And they don't hear my thoughts wishing that their point truly had been mute.

IMITATION

So you all know about Rookie Cookie.

You know she's awesome. You know she's my sister. And you know I'm her design stooge.

Since I am the visual end of the Rookie blog, I surf other food blogs. I want to see what else is out there. What people are cooking and what their food looks like. I also surf others' food spots so that I can verify for myself that Whitney's blog is unique in its presentation; there's no reason for me to put my time into something that looks like every other food blog.

Well in my site-hopping this evening I stumbled across this blog called Oh! What's for Dinner. And when I did so I discovered me a copy cat.

Is it just my ego or does the photo in the screen shot to the right look a bit too much like the template I created for the Rookie Cookie food images? Screened-back main image, circle cut-out off-set to the bottom-right, and the recipe title labeled beneath . . .

It's not just coincidence either; I know this food blogger is familiar with Rookie Cookie, 'cause she links to her waffles in the Oh! Breakfast section.

Not so sneaky. Or original. Or subtle.

•••

Please enjoy this post, for when Rookie finds out that I located the Oh! blog and put together this post, she's going to be peeved and I may hear about it. She's a nice chef and won't think my calling this out is very kind at all.

So forgive me, dear sister, but I work too hard on your blog to let this go un-Remarked on.

STUFF IT

Rumor on the street is that moms can be pretty nosy and judgmental when it comes to child-rearing. (Oh, you didn't hear that tidbit, huh? Hmmm. You must be the one propagating the prying closed-mindedness that everyone's abuzz about.)

You let your baby sleep with you?!!!

You're not sending your toddler to preschool?!!!

You're not breastfeeding?!!!

You let your kid eat candy before dinner?!!!

Your teen doesn't have a curfew?!!!

Well, I'm here to tell (or remind) y'all about how this kind of nosy faultfinding extends beyond the mommy realm and is alive and thriving in the world of food. And what we elect to eat of it.

Such an issue.

If I [am stupid enough to] state that I require hourly feedings, Someone will tell me that I shouldn't eat that often. And Someone Else will say Right on! Keep that metabolism rockin'! Then I say, Well really, I was just hungry. So I went lookin' for and found myself some toast and soymilk.

And then Someone says, Soymilk? So why not cows' milk? You're a milk snob. And Someone Else says, I love soymilk but you really should have had the Light variety. And I tell them that I avoid cows' milk and the store was out of the light soymilk, so I bought the leaded kind.

And then Someone says, No cows' milk? So you're like a vegan or something? And Someone Else assumes, Oh, you're lactose intolerant.

And I say, I'm not a vegan. I'm a vegetarian making a concerted effort at avoiding all animal products; lactose intolerance has nothing to do with it.

And then Someone says, A vegetarian, huh? You're an idiot.

And then I smile almost-politely, put My Reasons in my pocket and wander off in the other direction.

Guess what? It's none of my freaking business what you choose to stuff your [nosy] face with. And it's most certainly none of your affair what I eat, and it was awfully nice of me to engage in conversation with you in the first place.

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS . . .

PROBABLY SHOULDN’T HAPPEN AT ALL

Another medical conference. Another weekend in Las Vegas.

It’s been a good year and a half since we were ousted from Vegas, and we’re liking Sparks just fine, but there are still things I miss about Southern Nevada. The Weather. (Given the choice, I’d be quite quick and grateful to trade 17-degree winter days for 247-degree summer days.) Proximity to my family. Accessible Outlet Shopping. And Proximity to Disneyland. (Just kidding, I couldn’t care less how close I am to The Happiest Place on Earth; give me dinner out with The Husband, the world's most exuberant Yorkie, and a Rice Dream Pie and I’m quite happy.)

When booking though the company’s travel agency, I am given the choice whether or not to stay on the world-famous Las Vegas Strip. The Venetian or Marriott’s Residence Inn? It’s the Residence Inn for me every time.

Why, oh why? you may ask, would I choose to stay in the banal Residence Inn when I could luxuriate in a significantly more opulent space within walking distance of Barney’s, Banana Republic and The [Bizarre] Blue Man Group?

My answer: I pretty much hate the Strip. Not only is the skankiest piece of real estate the U.S. has to boast about out, but there are far too many enchanted or inebriated-and-on-the-prowl pedestrians for me to feel safe as I guide my rental car past such gems as the Bellagio and the soon-to-be-fab City Center. (It’s no Dubai, but there are some pretty neat feats of human engineering on Las Vegas Blvd.)

Why, just yesterday I nearly killed three different souvenir-cup-toting pedestrians who thought that the Anything Goes mentality of Vegas extends to jay-walking and disregarding traffic signals.

Exciting to say the least.

There’s nothing quite like nearly killing someone to get your heart racing such that you feel less guilty about skipping your a.m. blood-pumping jaunt on the treadmill.

SNOTTY POTTY

I am 26. So are you. Or there abouts. I have a dog. You have kids. You have a couple. Or there abouts.

And since we are of similar age and often similar religious persuasion or cynical outlook, I read your blog.

And sometimes, oh boy! do you make me laugh! And there are those times that I nod my head in agreement to what you're saying.

And every so often I will deign to watch one of the many YouTube videos you post. (They are always funny when I do.)

Some of you have music on your blog, and I sort of curse you when I visit your cyber spot and it destroys my Zen environment when it interrupts my iTunes before I can get to wherever you've stashed the pause button.

All of you wish Nie Nie a speedy recovery anticipate her return to her Dialogues.

You post a bunch of pictures of your kids. I'm convinced that the only possible reason you post so many images of the exact same moment in your child's life is that your kids have nineteen sets of grandparents scattered from here to Pluto The Satellite and you're doing your darndest to satiate their grandbaby needs. I get it. Grandparents are needy folk. It's the kind thing to do.

Sometimes you post photos of your house and I feel a slightly awkward when I scroll down, and right there on your blog, without live subjects to adorn it, is a photo of the bed you share with your spouse. (Overall, it's a little bit creepy when you photograph every room of your abode just to show me how its furnished. I feel like I should at least take off my shoes since you just vacuumed.)

You all read Twilight and saw the movie 34 times. It's cool; I read the books and saw the flick myself. I'm not obsessed with Edward, but if he's what helps you crawl out of bed in the morning, okey dokey.

You scrapbook, and I would rather gargle and chug an entire bathtub of mayonnaise than get out the brads, pinking shears, and patterned paper. (Okay, that was '09's most significant hyperbole thus far. I would rather be forced (for forced I would be) to scrapbook my every moment than go within 6,000 miles of a bathtub of mayonnaise.)

You love you husband. A lot. And good for you.

You read CJane.

When you get saucy and post about what chaps your hide, I gain respect for you. Get it out, girl!

When you swear, I appreciate your humanity.

Sometimes you put a baby counter on you sidebar. And I forgive you, for like your cursing demonstrates, you're only human.

There are times you post a killer recipe, and if it's Veg I consider (but only that, for I'm no cook) making it.

You love Rookie Cookie, and right on, for you should.

Sometimes you get your Mama Bear on and go private, and though it's a hassle, I understand if it's right for you. I add you to my growing "Private" folder and do my best to visit often.

Sometimes you solicit my KnuckleHeaders services. For that, I thank you.

I'm absolutely giddy when you post a photo that is actually art.

When you write something I wish I'd thought of first, I tell my husband about it. Speaking of which, The Husband, though he's never read you or met you, he knows who you are; sometimes you even make our dinner-date conversation.

I'm happy for you when you buy you first house. And when your husband's job moves you away from friends and family, I'm bummed on your behalf.

I love it when you post a picture of your dog. Especially if it's a small one.

But when you post about potty training your kids, I sort of wish you'd just delete your blog altogether.

And you all do it.

And I beg of you to stop.

It's urine and excrement, ladies. And without you saying so, we already know that it's your goal that your child crap in the crapper and stop wetting their Underoos. As soon as is possible. And, though you might be under the (mis)conception that you are the only family that does this, you don't need to tell us about how you give presents, throw candy, offer Target gift cards, do the Macarena, sing the Hallelujah chorus, and invite the neighbors over for cake and ice cream when your kid does naughty potty in the appropriate location; 'cause see, every single fetchin' parent does the same thing.

So enough already.

• • •

A post-post addition prompted by six or seven emails received within a mere hour of clicking "Publish Post" on this particular Remarks from Sparks gem:

Yup, it's awfully irreverent in here. It's sorta what I do. There's a point: in times such as these (and in times of plenty and pleasure too) we need to laugh at ourselves. So please, step back, unknot those knickers and realize that as people, bloggers, women and readers our similarities and the things that make us different can be pretty hilarious and sometimes poignant. I comment on and mock 'em, and it's all in fun. Did I intentionally offend you specifically? No sir. Did your blog spark the post? Nope. Do I remember a post from your blog that was the impetus of my sitting down to write this ditty slash diatribe? I wish I had that kind of memory, but I don't. Do I behave like this often? Yeah. Do I censor myself? Slightly. I have to be a quite a bit more ladylike in life offline, so a bit of bad behavior is what I use this here space for.

TO STARVE AND SATE THE HATE

It has to go.

A recent event sparked in my chest a ball of fury such like my little body has never before contained. The fury sprouted legs, mated with my innate intensity and bore Hatred. Since then, as new facts and details nourished the hate through puberty to vicious adulthood, I’ve felt a pulsating heat coursing through my bloody veins and darting along my nerves.

It’s disgust. Pure, sterilized loathing.

And it’s much too much for me to carry.

Never before have I been smacked with such a potent spate of enmity, one that nicks my nightly recovery and taints my days’ exchanges. I’ve been angry before. I’ve felt swells I’ve termed hatred; but when I did so then, I was wrong.

This black revulsion outdoes any rays of Negative I’ve experienced before.

Before, I could cart, even nurse, bad feelings. The growth and demise was interesting to watch. To watch and to release, for without further offense I forgive fast. This time, it’s heavy—this downbeat sits on my chest preventing the breaths my yoga practice has taught me can cleanse; this time the weight is more than I can make useful or haul around with me.

Cold hate is devoid of emotion; it’s molecules frozen. Burning hate is emotive and spreads like wild fire, eating interactions and hobbies, excreting them as banalities no longer worth loving—each love not enough to fill the hot hate’s insatiable appetite and bottomless belly.

My hate is hot. It’s singeing my soul and triggering a Self that isn’t true.

This hate tints the physical Me. My thudding heart can be heard by others. My brows bind together and give in to gravity. My steps echo more thoroughly in hallways. My mouth finds its corners to weighty to hold up.

If I don’t kill the hatred, this harsh habitat within me will mock any smiles slyly slipping by and twist laughter into lung-racking coughs.

I have to shift the power the loathing sprung from fury has over me into a tool that will self-destruct.

I quite simply cannot function under these conditions.

It has to go . . .

• • •

Ahhh.

Without even delineating the details, that was cathartic. A chemical powder on my internal forest fire.

I feel much better now.