12:45 p.m. - February 25, 2006
(I hear the murmuring already in the aisles…)
Sorry, but I am not going to confess to any high crimes or misdemeanors. In fact, I think the most criminal thing I’ve done is get caught for driving with an improper license (I paid a speeding ticket in Nebraska but it got lost in the mail and I was in deep doo-doo, but the judge had pity on me (oh but there was that one time I blew a .098 and the Indiana law was .10 at the time – the cop here in BFE land took me home. Sometimes it pays to know the cops, or at least have your Dad drink coffee with them)).
Actually, my life can be pretty blah, but there are some skeletons rattling about (rattle, rattle (they’re just saying hi (“Hi!”))). (See Vicki, a treble nested parenthetical aside – SCORE!)
And here are things I am not confessing to:
• I am not an assassin.
But what am I confessing to? Herewith be the list (murmur, murmur…)
I think my flirting is in harmless good fun – a wink and a nod – a little nudge nudge, maybe some stray innuendo thrown about. I am no stalker, though, and I always worry at times that maybe a little nudge went too far and I get nervous and apologize. So I make sure that everything is above board. At least I don’t think anyone is making shrines to me in their rooms.
And it’s kind of like the Armour Hot Dogs jingle – I flirt with fat girls, skinny girls, girls who climb on rocks, tough girls, sissy girls, and even girls with chicken pox.
At conferences I always go out with a group that includes women (and men) and my closest conference buds are women. At the user group conference there is this huge party on the Tuesday that features dancing and I am always finding someone to be my dance partner. (But we’re not having the times of our lives, as it were, if you get my drift.)
But I still flirt with the Mrs. as well. I mean, c’mon, she’s Liz. And I know women just love to be hit on while their cleaning the bathrooms…excuse me a minute…
I have a thing for redheads - I think this is the corollary to the flirting thing. It also is possibly due to a vestige on a list that I once made myself. Yes, as a guy I made a list, and I crossed everything off of it, except the redhead (oh, and one other thing but except for the Penthouse Forum that’s never really gonna happen – as George Costanza would say it’d be like discovering Plutonium by accident).
So now I’m over here in D-land, and some of my first circle buds (as in we email and sometimes IM and get silly, etc.) are redheads. All are semi-far away from BFE land, and most are a bit younger.
It does not matter that one or two may be a ‘bottle redhead’ – like I’m ever going to inspect the cuffs and collars to be sure. (The odds of that taking place are – well, so microscopic it’s unbelievable).
It seems that also most are in a state of dating stasis, where nothing is happening. Part of my heart goes pitter, patter, but all I can do is cheer them on as I know they will all find that right person for them.
Mind you, my blonde and brunette friends, this does not mean that I relegate you to second class status. Heavens no – but dang…redheads…
Uh…sorry about that. Hand check, everyone!
I have a temper - It’s sad, but I do. I don’t have a temper like my parents did, but it’s there and it comes out.
The majority of time it comes out not during major instances, but in minor transgressions. For instance, Liz sometimes will leave about a ¼ glass of soda or orange juice left in the bottle or pitcher, and puts it back in the refrigerator, instead of just finishing it. She left a 1/5 of a glass of wine in a bottle and put it back. This, to me, doesn’t make sense – there’s not a lot left, at all.
Also, when Liz accidentally deletes something off the TiVo that I didn’t get a chance to watch, I get a little incensed. I really shouldn’t – it’s just a damn TV show and those things always get repeated. But there I go acting like she violated six tenets of the Geneva Convention.
So, I tend to raise my voice in situations like that. It’s just minor crap, and it sets me off. I grumble, furrow and pout, too.
There goes husband of the year, I know, but hey…I never promised anyone a rose garden, because along with the sunshine, there’s got to be a little rain sometimes.
Right now I am the sole breadwinner here in la casa de Smed, and we’ve got a lot of priorities, like the mortgage, utilities, food, diapers, activities, and all that, and I have a budget for music and books and my lunches and I always, ALWAYS overshoot it.
That’s why I’m scrambling for extra money, because I have to feed my machine. Why do they make you pay for the cool things in life, anyway? I mean, cheap beer is one thing, but a nice wine will set you back and it’s better for you and is a better experience, at least I think so (though there still is something to be said for a six-pack of Old Milwaukee. Exactly what, I don’t know, but something…)
At times, I’ve suppressed my political views to ‘get along’ in certain situations - Yeah, I’m not proud of this one, but in a big group setting, where I’ve been the only one that felt a certain way (I’m sure of it) – I’ve just shut up and not said a word. My ears were burning, but I didn’t say anything.
At work, sure the QB and I have discussions, rational, serious and to the point. He’s wrong, of course, but we act like adults in discussing these things. In a mob, though, I’ve felt it’s best not to feed the mob mentality and offer a target. So I slunk to the back and examined the cheese tray.
One time, I was having lunch with a vendor, and he said “Now, you listen to Rush, right??” I didn’t say anything, really, just dipped my fries in the BBQ sauce. What I should have said, “Just because I have short hair, wear conservative clothes to work and have a white-collar job handling the finance part of a distribution center doesn’t mean I’m Johnny RightWing, you tool. Long live Diane Rehm and NPR!” But I didn’t.
Even though I have a tattoo, I sometimes look crossways at kids that have them - Mr. Hypocrite, phone call for Mr. Hypocrite. Yeah, I have a tat and it’s big, and here’s the story about it all, but still, if I see a young person with about three or four or five of them, a look of disdain flashes across my face, for some stupid-ass reason. Then I remember what the hell is on my arm. I don’t know if it’s the conservative part of my BFE upbringing that causes that momentary lapse of independent free-thinking, but I regret it every time that I do that.
There, now that’s all out in the open, I need some penance. Any suggestions? Does anyone have any sackcloth?