All The Suckiness of Being Drunk with None of the Fun

This really weird thing happened to me this afternoon.  I was sitting at my desk writing an email when all of a sudden the room started tilting to the right and then began to spin slowly.  I thought I might throw up, but no such luck.  Still, I thought, I should head to the bathroom.

Trying to get to the bathroom when the floor won’t stay firmly under your feet is quite a trick.

So, I sat in my office a long time with my eyes shut wondering if I’d poisoned myself.

Finally, it passed but I’m so exhausted.

I was reviewing the things I’ve had to eat today to see what the culprit might be:

Breakfast–Golden Grahams, Orange Juice

Ride to work–Cafe Mocha from Starbucks which made me feel a little like Busy Mom

Lunch–Peanut butter & jelly sandwich, carrots, apple sauce, Diet Dr Pepper

The only difference between me and my usual routine was the coffee.  But could it have taken four years to try to kill me?

I say, perhaps, especially if Busy Mom has hexed the Starbucks in order to make folks sick in order to keep the line at the drive-through short for her convenience.

My 10 Year High School Reunion–Which I Could Have Sworn I Told You About, but Apparently Not

I went to two different high schools.  The first high school I went to was in a community in which I’d lived for nine years, which is, coincidently, how long I’ve lived in the South, thus making the South and this community tied for places I’ve lived the longest.  The second was a tiny school in the middle of Illinois where I was stalked and where I learned that, if someone offers to teach you to drive a stick in exchange for a hand-job, you should make damn sure you learn to drive said stick first, because once the hand-job has been given, the impetus for putting up with your inability to drive his truck has been lost.

Anyway, I wasn’t invited to the ten year reunion at the second high school, if there was one.  I also wasn’t invited to the ten year reunion at the first one, but when I moved, my friend Moe and I made a pact that we would go together and because Moe is a woman of her word, we did.

I should point out that, in high school, I was much like I am today, but moreso.  So, I was smart, but not the smartest person in any given situation.  I was not an unpopular nerd, but I wasn’t in the cool crowd.  I didn’t play sports, but I was in the band.  I had some issues–such as my desire to off myself–that probably stood in the way of me being happy, but I wasn’t on drugs or drinking.  Though, in retrospect, maybe those things would have made me feel more at ease.

Anyway, my point is that I was amazingly ordinary, slightly-above average, but painfully socially inept and insecure in much the same way as I am now, but more intense because it was half my life ago, and though I am still not a beaming sun ray of togetherness and spectacularness, I try not to live in ways that actively make me unhappy, I am in a much better place than I was when I was fifteen.

I was friends with this girl, let’s call her Hot Topic, since, I believe that is the name of the store she now manages.  Her family went to my church and she was in band with me.  She also dated my good friend, Mike, briefly. Her dad was awesome–a big old red-haired Dane who spoke German and had a barrel full of books he’d let me borrow from, though he loved Hemingway and I did not.  And her brother, when listening to me mope, even then about how no one would ever love me, once leaned over and kissed me right on the mouth*.  But her mom clearly, and I mean clearly, liked her sister better than her.

Anyway, Hot Topic came down to my high school graduation, which was nice.  And then I didn’t hear from her except to get an invitation to her wedding (about nine years after we’d graduated)–which I declined–for ten years. 

So, when I show up with Moe to the reunion, I’m with the only person I’d managed to stay in contact with from my class.  The rest of these folks?  I don’t know them.  I would say that I barely remember them, but many of them did me the favor of not having changed at all since high school.  In fact, some of the popular girls were still having the same fights they had in high school, since, I would guess, 7/8ths of the people from my class never left town.

It was a little awkward, to say the least.  Moe and I were well aware that people would think we were a couple and it was interesting to see how people tried to let on that they “knew” and how they tried to prove that they were either cool with that or not cool with that.  And the bitches in our class still sat at the bar and glared at everyone like someone had pissed in their drinks.  But it was cool to catch up with Moe and to discover that the kid who’d broken his neck water skiing had recovered and gone on to get married and have a kid and actually be really cool.

Needless to say, most folks made no effort to talk to us.  Fine.  

Not even Hot Topic.

But at some point, I’m headed to the bathroom and she’s standing by the bar (Did I tell you the reunion was at this crappy country club in their bar/dining room, which they did not even bother to keep other people out of?) and she starts yelling, “Oh, fuck you, B.  You just walk around here like the people who know you will know you and the people who won’t won’t.  Well, you know what?  None of our spouses know you.  You might think you’re so great and that if people want to know you, they should come up and talk to you, but that’s not how it works.  If our spouses don’t know who you are, they aren’t going to know who you are unless you tell them.”

 Seriously, she’s yelling this.  And everyone’s just standing there staring at us, like I’m supposed to respond.  But seriously, she’s right.  No one’s going to know who I am if they don’t know me and neither one of us bothers to introduce me to them.  I mean, how does one argue that?  But she’s being so loud and just going on about how I probably think I’m so much better than her, but I’m not, because she’s married.

What could I do?

I just said, “You’re right.” and turned and went to the bathroom. 



*Which, I must say, is the one of the sweetest things that’s ever happened to me. I hope you all will try it the next time I’m feeling insecure.

Spoiled Brats

I don’t have kids.  At this rate, I’ll probably never have kids.  But, you know, I’m not opposed to it and if the right fella came along, I’d be willing to squirt out a couple.

I like it when my nephews come to visit, though, I’ll admit that I find it a little intense, all the running and the noise and the general chaos and sense of disappointment that we don’t have better things to play with.

And I’m used to having kids around. I don’t eat at restaurants where people don’t bring children.  I hang out at parks; there are children at parks.  Shoot, there are often kids in and out of our office for one reason or another.

Still, I’m no expert on kids.  Maybe there’s some way that they could behave that would never cause the adults around them stress or discomfort.

But reading Short & Fat’s post today?

All I could think of is that we’re a nation of spoiled brats.


You can expect to be surrounded by a vast child-free space in your own home.  Outside of your home?  No.

In the world, there are children and they’re going to do the things that children do.  Yes, there are children who’s behavior is constantly above and beyond a problem.  But you know?  Really, those kids are not that common.  Mostly there are some people who seem to expect that they can live their lives only surrounded by other adults while kids are kept tucked safely out of sight at home or at day cares or in school.

I don’t know what to make of that expectation–that the whole world owes it to you to conform to your desires and present you with a reality in which other people’s lives never intrude on yours–except to think that it’s the height of brattiness.

An Open Letter to a Potential Stalker

Hello Person or Persons Overly Interested in My Readers,

I just wanted to let you know that I can see when you search the site for a name–say “saraclark” for instance.  You are, of course, more than welcome to search away for every instance of brilliant insight any of my readers have left here.

I am welcome not to like it.

You should know that I find it incredibly creepy and if I catch you again scouring the site for a particular person’s comments, I will be emailing that person your IP address, operating system, time of searches, and every entry you looked at. 


Aunt B.