…a dog.

Take your eyeballs and shove them back into their sockets.  That’s right, I said dog.

And, to make matters worse, not only are we going to talk about a dog, we are going to talk about a pug.  Which is, for me, pretty much the bottom of the dog barrel, discounting the Chihuahua and poodle. (Get a real dog, fps.)

I HATE pugs.  In general, they slobber, snore, fart, jump on you, nip at your heels, run around all hyper peeing everywhere—abysmal.

It gets better.  This particular pug is owned by…wait for it…wait for it…a Volunteer.  Not a volunteer, like the little white-haired, pink-jacketed lady who delivers flowers at the hospital, or the one-pitcher-of-beer-too-many guy who practically rushes the stage when the magician asks for a member of the audience.  He’s a Volunteer with a capital ‘v’, as in University of Tennessee fan.

Take a few seconds to clear the spewed beverage from your computer screen.  I’ll wait.

I HATE Tennessee fans. In general, they’re ignorant, mannerless, traffic-cone-orange-wearing FREAKS that jump on you, nip at your heels, and run around all hyper everywhere—abysmal.

BUT.

To nearly every rule, there is at least one an exception, and in this case, there are two.

I know, I know. My pug-hating pals are thinking No way in hell am I ever going to like a pug. And all I have to say is, you haven’t met Pork Rains.

Look at those eyes. Have you no HEART?  It is impossible not to like this dog.  Believe me.  I have TRIED.

My die-hard Dawg buddies are thinking No way in hell will I ever be friends with a Vol. And all I have to say to that is, you haven’t met Josh Rains.  It is impossible not to like this guy.  Believe me, I have TRIED.  (Okay, that’s a fat lie; I’ve been quasi-in-love with him since we met, and we’re work-married, but I digress.)  He is bright, witty, off-the-charts genuine, kind, and a true Southern gentleman.

Look at that smile. Have you no SOUL?

And so, here we are.

Ever since I started this blog, Josh has taunted me.

One day, you will blog about Pork.

No, I will never, ever, ever, EVER devote precious webspace to a DOG, let alone a PUG. Let alone a PUG owned by a VOL.

You will.

I will not.

Yes you will.

I. WILL. NOT.

But, apparently, I will.  See, my work-husband has decided to leave Georgia and me, and go back to the state with fewer teeth per capita than any other.  And so, as sort of a send off, I’m doing what I said I’d never do.

Therefore, behold:

An Interview with Pork Rains

So, Pork, tell us a little bit about you.  If you had to describe yourself in three words, what would they be?

Man, I hate these kinds of questions…only three?  Let me see …epicurean…*snore* …… Wha? oh, sorry, um…erudite…yeah and um, handsome.

What’s on your iPod?

My tastes are very eclectic.  I like certain artists for different situations.  Jack Johnson is good for chilling on a Sunday morning.  I workout to the Chili Peppers or Wolfmother. I like to play Sade for the lay-dees.

If you could have lunch with anyone, who would it be?

I mostly eat with Mom and Dad.  Mostly Dad, because he eats more often than Mom so the chances of getting a nibble are better.  But if we’re talking celebrity, then Catherine Keener or Keanu Reeves.

Name a celebrity you feel is overrated.

Angelina Jolie.  Enough already.

How about underrated?

Jeremy Piven.

If you could be anyone else, who would you be?

I like being me, but if I had to pick, I’d say Yoda.  So much respect he gets, yes.

What’s been your proudest moment?

Winning Best Handmade Costume at Pug-Fest 2009.  Mom made this Nacho Libre outfit that was off the chain.

What is your favorite thing in the world?

Tummy rubs. Or sleeping on Dad’s lap when he’s on the computer.

If you could visit anywhere, where would you go?

Italy.  Or Portugal.  Maybe Belize.  I know a ton of languages, so anywhere, really.

What’s your favorite microbrew?

I don’t enjoy beer.  It’s pedestrian.  I prefer a good scotch—Auchentoshan or Lagavulin.  Or a snifter of brandy while reading sonnets.

What’s in your TiVo?

We don’t have TiVo.  Dad doesn’t embrace smaller technological conveniences.  He has an iPhone but won’t even text on it.  Dad’s so weird.

So, what’s your next project?

Well, we’re moving in a few weeks, so right now I’m focused on chewing the corners of boxes, or hiding one shoe out of a pair.  After that, who knows?

I’m a misanthropist.  To put it simply, I do not enjoy the company of others.  Or, to be even more precise, I hate people.

I don’t mean hate like white-hood-burning-cross hate, or flaming-liquor-bottle through-the-front-window hate.  I mean, golly-gee-people-get-on-my-nerves hate.

See, I have a very low no tolerance for:

• shenanigans
• obliviousness
• poor manners
• lack of good sense

And people, God bless them, are masters of the above.  It requires much less of my energy to just avoid interaction.

It is for this reason I have, in my old age, become quite anti-social.  Even those I count among my best friends have to force me to interact with them outside of Facebook.

And so, I quite surprised myself by suggesting a meet-up with some people I barely know. We’ll call them…let’s see…Peter, Paul, and Mary.

We’ll begin with Peter, the one person in the trio I had ever actually met before—in middle school. We were not by any means friends, and I hesitate to say we were even acquaintances.  Amid Peter and his ilk, I was denim in a closet of khaki, patchwork in a drawer of madras. I was not privileged, urbane, or cool. I didn’t belong among them and I knew it.

We all knew it.

But we tolerated each other in the way one tolerates a head cold, knowing the situation will eventually pass.  And it did, when I moved away for high school.

At best, Peter and I were student colleagues, sharing a homeroom, some classes, and an interest in one-hit wonders. I may have entertained a crush on him for half a day, pursuant to a note-passing session in Language Arts re: the lyrics to Don’t You Want Me Baby.

My social skills were beyond inept, and I briefly adored anyone who paid me ten seconds of attention. I never wrote his name in a notebook seventeen thousand times while listening to Casey Casem count down the Top 40, though.  That was reserved for serious infatuation.

Paul is a good friend of Peter’s, whom I’d never met, though I had heard of him.  But he was a year ahead of us, and our paths did not cross.  Mary moved into town the year I moved out, so we never met, either.

I came to know both Paul and Mary through my social media dealings with Peter, and before long we began joking about a meeting of the minds.

Twenty-seven years later (Peter did the math), the opportunity to see Mr. Human League arose, and I suggested all four of us make a date of it.  Of course, I’m still a social spaz, so I had Mary, who plans events for a living, take the lead.  She happily took over and within minutes had the boys on board for an early happy-hour.

We met at a local establishment, in the truest sense of the word.  This was a place they’d spent years as both teens and collegians—faded snapshots of the gang arm-in-arm, spilling over the upper deck, sporting sunburned smiles and concert tees to prove it.  I had no ties to the tavern, beyond a pretty good fish sandwich I once enjoyed there.

The day of our meeting, I chastised myself for trying to socialize with these people.  I questioned their willingness to socialize with me.  My stomach hurt.  I thought of canceling.

I sent a half-hearted text to Mary.

Are we still on for this afternoon?

Yes. I just got off the phone with Peter.  4pm.  See you then.

I decided I’d better get ready.  I obsessed over my appearance.

Hey honey…do these jeans make my ass look nerdy?

I waited until the last possible second to leave for the restaurant.  As I slid on my shoes, I got a text from Paul.

I’m as giddy as a schoolgirl.

I laughed and relaxed. A little.

When I arrived, Mary and Peter had already secured a corner table. We hugged and said our hellos.  Peter said I was nicer in person than on the Internet.  Mary said Peter was nicer in person than on the Internet.  I said we were all nicer in person than on the Internet.

I told Mary she was lovely (she is) and that her Facebook pictures don’t do her justice.  She said I was radiant.  I said I was pleased to be like Wilbur.

They argued over the position of the window blind. Mary wanted it open; Peter wanted it closed. She called him grandpa and closed it. We ordered beer. Peter made fun of my Bud Light with Lime. Geez, why don’t you just get sparkling water? Mary made fun of Peter.  You got Coor’s Light, dude.  You really don’t have any room to talk. Then Paul walked in, removed his Wayfarers, and broke into a full grin.  I stood up so we could also hug.  I tried to let go and Paul said he wasn’t done.  A good minute later, he finally let me go and we took our places at the table.

The three of them chattered on while I just listened and sipped my beer, feeling out of place. I was just about to slip back into my inadequacy suit—still fits like a glove—when the conversation turned and we began to discuss issues all four of us had opinions on, including, but not limited to:

• sunglasses (Paul has had those Ray Bans since 1988. Peter and I buy cheap glasses at Target because we lose them.)
• french fries  (Paul likes shoestring; I prefer crinkle cut.  Peter likes them as well and despite what his wife says, the grocery store does have them, and he brought home a five-pound bag just to prove it.) (Aside: Being married to Peter must be an awful lot like being married to…well…me. Our spouses are saints.)
• back fat (we all have it)
• cholesterol (Paul watches it, I ignore it, Peter’s old boss said it was irrelevant if you got hit by a bus)
• sushi
• politics (I’m apathetic Republican, Peter and Paul are, if they are forced to label themselves, Libertarians, although they both hate labels.)
• the number of hors d’oeuvres needed per person for a function between 6-8 pm (Mary says 10-12)
• the beach
• high tide
• low tide
• cilantro (I hate it, and Paul agrees it’s easy to over-do)
• the cilantro gene (makes it taste soapy)
• the asparagus gene
• Twitter
• people who abuse Twitter
• people who don’t understand Twitter
• religion (Paul leans traditional; Peter and I prefer contemporary)
• stupid people (we all hate them)
• crazy people (we named a few)
• childbirth (husband-sided delivery room recounts in excruciatingly uncomfortable detail making me really, really, REALLY glad I had a c-section and Warren was positioned beside my head)
• health (watching what you eat, or not)
• aging (Sitting in the floor hurts my behind. Peter stood up once after a long lunch and his hip gave out.)
• hairy chests (I said I liked them and didn’t trust men with smooth chests.  Paul said he’s scared to roll up his sleeves in public lest someone offer him a banana)
• the love of children (how they tell you you’re the best or the smartest or the most beautiful mommy/daddy in the world and they really mean it even though you know it’s far from true)
• children hitting puberty (Peter, Paul, and I all plan on locking away our daughters)
• proctology
• Facebook
• vasectomies
• camping
• work
• people who work in healthcare and why Peter and Paul are drawn to them (it’s because we’re smart and compassionate)
• hot peppers, their size, their lengths, and which ones taste best in the mouth
• the “Paul burger” (has a pocket of pepper jack cheese inside and various secret spices)
• former classmates
• hair color
• contact lenses
• swimming in the ocean v. lake (Paul can’t stand lakes, nor can I)
• cellphones (Mary and Paul have iPhones, Peter has a Droid. I have an LG, but I’d left it in the car. Peter posted something on Twitter and it took a good while for the site to load for Mary and Paul.  Peter then likened Paul’s iPhone with AT&T service to driving a Porsche and filling it with milk.)
• texting
• blogging (we all wish Peter would write more, and not just about The Clash)
• television shows  (House, Lie to Me, White Collar, Next Food Network Star)
• Food Network in general
• food in general
• books (Peter said Harper Lee was the Tommy-TuTone of the literary set.  I resisted the urge to crack my Bud Light bottle on his skull and reminded him Margaret Mitchell also only wrote one novel.)
• celebrity deaths (I said the death of actors from the 70s made me feel old. Paul said he didn’t know what he’d do when The Fonz died.)
• ice cream
• Pepsi v, Coke (Peter said he prefers Pepsi, and kinda broke my heart just a little. Paul is a Coke guy, which kinda made me swoon.)
• strings
• sealing wax
• other fancy stuff

I was prepared for the whole thing to be a debacle, but it was actually enjoyable.  In fact, it was the most fun I’d had in the company of others in a good long while.

Like I said, I live 85-90% of my life in my own head.  But, apparently, it’s good to get out once in a while.

Who knew?

Why has it been so long since we took an actual vacation?  I could cite several reasons, including toddler wrangling and the economy, but the truth of the matter is, we just don’t vacate well.

The hubs is a homebody.  His mantra is: I don’t want to go anywhere I have to go someplace.

I am a high-maintenance traveler.  This comes as a surprise, I know.  I need spare outfits in case I hate the ones I planned.  I need shoes, accessories, and jewelry for all the outfits—planned and spare.  I need one bag just for hair care alone, a make-up case, my insulin pump junk, and a tote for diversions (crosswords, books, iPod, etc.)  So that’s four bags not including the just-in-case over-the-counter products I carry in my portable personal pharmacy, including, but not limited to:

• Advil
• Afrin
• Alavert
• Benadryl
• Gas-X
• Glucose tablets
• Hydrocortisone cream
• Imodium
• Neosporin
• Robitussin cough gels
• Sudafed
• Tums
• Vick’s salve
• Zantac

(Aside: When I was in pharmacy school, my roommate would make a game of guessing how many OTCs I had in my purse.  Fifteen is the record.  I checked just now out of curiosity.  Twelve if you count the deodorant.  Yes, I carry deodorant.  It’s July. In Georgia. Shut up.)

Plus, vacations are a lot of work.  There’s all this pre-planning and packing (unless you just buy stuff at the airport like my friend Jerry.)  And there’s all this LAWNDRAY.  You have to do it before the trip so you’ll have clothes to take on the trip, and then you have wash the clothes you wore on the trip when you get home.  It’s Tideapalooza, for crying out loud.

Hubby and I have also had more than our share of bomb getaways, and I don’t mean the bomb.  I mean as in KABLOOEY!

Franklin, GA : I got the runs from a buffet at Western Sizzlin’ and spent what little time we weren’t looking at chunks of rock on the pot.

Charleston, SC:  No sleep because of the pumping bass from the house across the alley from the hotel, and the Gestapo interrogation light shining in the window because the FAKE drapes would not close.  Not to mention the impertinence of the desk clerk who suggested perhaps we should not have chosen a hotel in the downtown area.  Ok, well, perhaps I shall now choose which orifice of yours will receive my foot.

Nastyass Cabin in North GA: Let’s just say the owners of the cabin and I had differing viewpoints on housekeeping.  As in, I expected some.  About day three, I begged hubby to take me to Chattanooga for the day, just so I didn’t have to spend it among cobwebbery and filth.  Yes, you read that right.  I pitched a fit to go to TENNESSEE.  That’s how bad it was.

And so, for the past couple of years, we’ve just not gone anywhere.  This makes for awkward workplace interchange as summer approaches.

When are you taking vacation?

I’m not.

Or:

Where are you going on vacation?

Nowhere.

And, my favorite:

Planning anything special this summer?

Nope.

Apparently, it’s not a privilege of human existence to take vacation, but a requirement. Otherwise, you get the slant-eye from your colleagues as they inspect you for bolts or bite-marks.

And so, in an effort to appear normal and sane, we are washing, folding, packing, and planning, getting ready to go somewhere we gotta go someplace.

Lord help us.

A few months ago, I heard the most terrifying words—beyond You’re fired—one could ever hear in the workplace.

We are getting a new computer system.

And at first, I was all, Yeah, right, because we rarely get what we are told we are going to get. (See also:  quiet refrigerator, insulation for the robot, staplers…)

But then, they started having training classes for the management, and soon enough, they had them for the worker bees.

We are getting a new computer system.

To protect my job the innocent, let’s call it…let me see…oh, yes…HAL.

HAL. SUCKS.

Yeah, yeah, it’s new…blah, blah, blah… and I need to give it time…blah, blah, blah…be positive…blah, blah, blah. And blah.

But looky here, the things that suck about HAL will not be resolved with time or Norman Vincent Peale tenets.

First off, the main screen is busy.  BIZ.ZEE.  It couldn’t be more obtrusive if it had blinking lights running around the edge.  It shouts Look at me!  Burn your retinas! There are just so many…colors.  The system we use now—and we like it; we like it fine—is mostly bi-chromic.  It’s blue on blue, or black on black, or gray on gray, depending on which terminal you use.  At any rate, it doesn’t assault your optic nerves, which is nice, if you’re going to be staring at it for eight to twelve hours.

Second, HAL has too many options.  I know, I know, people like options.  No one wants to be pigeonholed.  But there is a stark difference between having a choice and having an overwhelming smorgasbord orgasbord orgasbord of decisions to make.  There are menus and submenus and sub-sub menus.  I’m almost positive, if you click around long enough, you will find a command for cleaning your kitchen.

You have to wonder if they even consulted a practicing pharmacist(s) during the design process.  If they did, those particular RPh’s should be slathered in honey and plopped down in a fire ant mound impaled.  (I do love a good impalement.)

Anyway, HAL is billed as this great patient safety, error-reducing, end-all, be-all medication savior to mankind.

Too bad it’s designed for failure.

Let’s take for instance the timing of medications.  Every label printed should have an administration time on it.  This was stressed during our training.  Time! Time! Everything needs a time!  Don’t forget the time!  TIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIME!! Yet, HAL does not automatically insert a time when you print a label for a med not given on a set schedule (a.k.a. “prn” med). You have to FORCE enter a time.  If you don’t, the label prints without a time.  But, as another added bonus, it won’t STOP you if you DON’T enter a time.  You have to REMEMBER to enter a time.  Doesn’t seem like a big deal if you work in Podunk, GA, at 10-bed facility, but at the “big” hospital, I can personally guarantee you this little detail is going to get missed more often than not. Oopsie.

And speaking of time, it takes too much of it to enter an order.  Oh, you’ll get faster. That’s what they tell me. But I can only go as fast as the software will allow me to go, and if I have to stop and click 47 dialogue and/or pop-up boxes with a mouse, my speed is going to be affected.  When it takes me 10 minutes to enter a stat cardiac drip for a code, that’s going to be a big, big problem.

And then there is the redundancy. There is a little check-box to toggle on and off for medicines that are given “prn.”  But checking this little box means Captain Jack Sparrow Squat if you don’t enter “prn” in the frequency field as well.  On the flip side, if you enter “prn” as the frequency and don’t check off the little box, it pops up with the medications to be given on a schedule.

I hate that little box. Hard.

And then, of course, there is the list of things HAL can’t do that our current, clunky but loveable system can.

This is supposed to be an upgrade. This is supposed to lead to fewer errors.  This is supposed to improve patient care.  It’s supposed to do it better, faster, safer, and smarter.

But I’m afraid HAL can’t do any of those things, Dave.

They sent out a list, or you could just send in $15.  Guess which I chose.

But now, we are moving to a bigger Christian school, in a “real” school building with uniforms, sports and arts programs, debt, etc.  And so, fully against my will, I come to a milestone of motherhood—shopping for the dreaded school supply list.

Now years ago, when I was in grade school, they didn’t have all these rules about what you had to have.  A pack of paper and a No. 2 pencil and you were pretty much set.  Of course, back then, there was also such a thing as government funding, so craft materials—scissors, construction paper, glue—were provided by the school.

There were choices.  You had opportunity to express your individuality from grades 1 to 12.  You could have a Star Wars Trapper Keeper and a pencil you got in the fishing booth at the church carnival with a troll head on top. You could have a monogrammed, hot pink, leopard print Lillian Vernon pencil case.  You could use wide or college ruled paper, blue or black Erasermates, Wite Out! or Liquid Paper. You could write Journey lyrics all over your three-pronged folders—with or without pockets.

And we liked it.  We liked it fine.

But now, you have to have the exact items on a very particular list of Stepford supplies.  Four pack chisel-tip, low-odor, assorted, dry erase markers.  5″ blunt tip Fiskar brand scissors with orange handle. 1-inch three-ring-binder, clear-view pockets, manufactured between 2006 and 2009 in a specific facility in Thailand on the second Wednesday after the summer solstice.  In white.

Long ago, before I had children, when this phenomenon first began to eat its way into our lives, I spied harried women scrapping over 70- page wide-ruled notebooks and washable markers the night before school started, and I vowed I would avoid such ridiculousness by ordering my child’s supplies on-line.  One shipment, one payment, all in one box, done.  How clever am I?

Pretty clever. In theory. But it is, however, not exactly cost efficient.  As I was loading my shopping cart with 16 goes-on-purple-dries-clear glue sticks (16?  Really?  What are these kids going to be gluing? The Liberty Bell?) I noticed the total was $12.49.

Now, I just happened to know WalMart has a two pack of the very same glue sticks for a whopping $0.25.

Well, I’m no math whiz, but 8(0.25) = a whole lot less than 12 bucks.   Like ten dollars less.

Ten dollars?

That’s lunch for me and the child at Chick-fil-A—with ice dream. (That is, of course, assuming the black Jetta in front of me knows how to FUNCTION in a two-lane drive-thru.)  Or three 12-packs of Coke Zero.  Or half one third one fourth a tank of gas.  Or two of those frou-frou roofing-tar lattes from Starbucks.  A couple of steaks.  A few pairs of Old Navy flip-flops.  THREE BOXES OF THIN MINTS!!!

Now, I’m all about convenience, and I have been known to pay a little extra to avoid aggravation/irritation/annoyance/ass-drag.  I always say, “My sanity it worth it.”

Yeah.  Not so much.

My sanity and Alexander Hamilton are going to WalMart, to engage in the pushing/shoving maelstrom of back-to-schoolness.

If I’m not back in a few hours, check the hospital jail.

WORST news ever!

My first thought was RATS! I’ve been off Twitter for less than two hours and the world ended and I missed it.

I replied, thumbs flying, asking for more elaboration on this possible Armageddon.

I mean, really, there are so many scenarios, including but not limited to the cast of Glee remaking Don’t Stop Believin’, which already had me spending the better part of Tuesday rooting through the junk drawer for chopsticks with which to puncture my eardrums.  (You need chopsticks—or two sharp things—because you gotta do them both at once.  You can’t possibly do one and then expect to finish the other while writhing on the floor.)

Worst cover ever.

While waiting for her response, I checked Twitter.  Let’s see…lunch menu, link to a photo of someone taking it in the nuts, Norman Vincent Peale quote, World Cup, World Cup, World Cup, righteous BP indignation, World Cup, 10 ways to make Twitter work for you, I’m sloshed, something weird Einstein did as a child, World Cup, random location—I’m at the 10th street deli!—sent via iPhone, World Cup, and grocery list.  Nope, not here.

And so, I did what I always do when a word or phrase out of context doesn’t make sense.  I Bing-ed it.

AS. IF.

Worst search engine ever.

I Googled it, of course.  Funny thing, but worst news ever, means many different things to many different people.  A particular baseball player retired…some ass-drag dark comedy on HBO got cancelled…an indie band with a name like Soul Cabbage broke up because the whiny lead vocalist got the big head…

Well, you know how it is when you Google something.  You start out looking for one thing, then something else captures your attention, and before you know it, your well-intentioned search for a soup recipe turns into a four-hour You Tube marathon of outtakes from Friends.

And so, I ended up at a style (in its loosest sense) website where the premise is for visitors to post photographs of themselves in various outfits, to showcase fashion trends.

I was drawn to this particular photo:

That asymmetrical hair-do drives me nuts, of course, and I’m also wondering why she’s sporting suede boots in what is discernibly—green leaves, green grass—springtime.  Discounting the double-70s-doorknocker belt and the AK-47 handbag, she doesn’t look…well…horrible.

The thing that drew me in was the photo’s caption: Work.  On first glance, you kinda just have to wonder exactly what line of work she’s in if this is acceptable office attire.

On second glance, it becomes pretty obvious she’s a florist.  I mean, why else would she have chosen to be photographed with a bright pink bag of potting soil between her feet?  Not to mention the seedling tray.  I’m not real sure what the sloppily hung Christmas lights have to do with anything, either, but maybe that’s some newfangled micro plant lamp.

Worst staging ever.

Finally heard from my friend.  The news wasn’t devastating, nor did it involve either of us directly.  Like I said, worst news ever means many things to many people.

But for me, it’s fairly simple.  Worst news ever?

MSNBC.

And to top that off, now you have the liking of liking of liking.  I can hardly wait for the barrage of updates this handy new feature will generate.

But the truth is, you don’t know me.  You are a computer program written by some Starbucks swilling computer whiz college kid with too much amphetamine time on his hands who got crunk and played Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon one too many times.  Don’t presume to know my likes and dislikes based on some random computerized extrapolation.

In the beginning, back when you were all shiny and new, your ideas seemed fresh and clever. Why, yes, I should befriend my college roommate’s sister! Most of them made at least a modicum of sense.  But now?  Now I think you just generate some crap and slap it up there, without applying any actual algorithm or probability formula AT ALL.

I have not had a friend suggestion in the last six months that was a person I’d ever even heard of.  It used to be the people you suggested were—at most—two people removed from someone I actually knew.  Now you’ve lost it.  Roommate’s sister is one thing.  Roommate’s sister’s husband’s cousin’s neighbor’s orthodontist’s receptionist’s wife’s brother’s dry cleaner’s hospice nurse is quite another.

And don’t even get me started on the page suggestions.  Many who like Mercy Me also like Third Day. Ok, well, that makes sense.  Both are Christian bands with similar styles.  Many who like Law & Order like CSI. Well, duh.

Many who like David Beckham also like Michael Jackson.

Say WHAT?

What could these two possibly have in common?  Did MJ have 23 bottles of Diprivan in his medicine cabinet?  Does Becks spend time with a chimp (I mean besides Victoria)?  Has Michael Jackson somehow resurrected himself (stop singing Thriller and pay attention) and subsequently taken up soccer?  Or has Becks launched a pop music career of which I am blissfully unaware?  I mean come on.  This pairing is ridiculous.  It makes no sense whatsoever.  There is absolutely nothing these two have in common…nothing at all…not one single thi…

Wait.

Crap.

It’s the voice.

Right.

Well, thanks for undermining my example of your nonsensicalness with hidden sense.  So, to top it all off, you’re also sneaky, Facebook.

I unlike sneaky.

I hate it.  All of it.  And I know this may come as a bit of a surprise, but I don’t wait well.

Why?

I don’t wait well, because *I* am special. My issue is more important, my time is more valuable, or my need is more immediate than anyone else’s.

There are two problems with this belief.

First, it is not in line with what I have been taught by The Bible.  Christ expects us to put others above ourselves.  In church, we learn a little mnemonic to help us keep that perspective.

J.O.Y.  Jesus first. Others next. You last.

I struggle with this particular aspect of my Godly relationship, because I’m all about Jesus first, Lynne second, others last (or not at all.)

So then, I guess that makes my philosophy…let’s see…J…L…

J-Lo?

Awesome.

The other problem with my viewpoint is everyone else in America believes it, too. About themselves.

Take for instance my child’s recent dance recital, held in a local community facility.  The micro-managing fussbudget studio director insisted that no one be allowed to enter the theatre until 15 minutes prior to the beginning of the performance.

Three things were wrong with that.

First, you had to have your children at the theatre an hour prior to the show.  Do that math.  That’s forty-five minutes of waiting with no real place to wait.  They shoved us all into a ballroom with maybe five chairs.

Second, 15 minutes is not a lot of time for all the parents, Nanas, PePaws, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, random screaming infants, and next-door neighbors to find—and take for crying out loud—a seat.

Third, as this news rolled through the crowd, it morphed a room full of otherwise well-behaved women into hissing, salivating tigresses, and violated a premier law of nature:

Never come between a Southern woman and her pink tutu-ed young.

I, however, having suffered through participated the year prior, was prepared for this little wrinkle.  I dropped my daughter backstage at 12:45.  She was already wearing her tights, and her costume was ready and waiting on a hanger.  I knew that crazy old woman the director wasn’t going to allow parents in the back to help dress children.  I also knew asking someone else to put tights on my child would border on the inhumane. For them, not her.

They have people to assist the children, and will all but dart-gun anyone who tries to get past the check-in table. While this might seem a cause for concern, it is not, because the people are teenage girls from the older classes, not lecherous stagehands with nicotine stained nail beds named Burt.

It was, however, a source of great consternation for several mother/daughter duos, because of the no underpants/tights only edict. Last year, this particular detail, having been sprung on my child at the last minute, caused small-scale Armageddon at my house. This year, we wore nothing but tights under our leotard to class every week.  Because it is, I assured her, the way dancers dress.

So while all these other women scurried to the restroom to comfort their tiny drama queens and dress them, I started the line to enter the theatre. As in, I was first.  Well, actually, my friend Sara was first, but anyway, we held the prime position in chairs near the ballroom exit.

There was also a bench, adjacent to said exit, and last year, a few opportunistic individuals edged over to it and wormed into the line.  This year, being obscured by the flower-selling table, it remained unused.

Unused, that is, until this offensively skinny woman, teetering on 4 inch heels and wearing what can only be described as a floral parachute (strings and all) with a gigantic faux Coach bag and a non-dancing eleven-year-old in tow decided to take residence upon it.

I looked at her and delivered my best the-line-starts-over-here-honey smile, which she did not reciprocate.

She’s going to try to get in front of you.  Sara interpreted the one-sided exchange.

I know.

She’s got some nerve.

I believe the term you’re looking for is ‘gall.’

At T-minus-five, Sara and I moved parallel to the door frame, forming a more obvious line against the long wall.

Paratrooper Barbie wobbled over and stood across from the door.

She really is going to try to go in first. Sara hissed the “s” in “first.”

Won’t happen.

She thinks it will.

It will NOT.  WE WILL BE FIRST TO ENTER THE FACTORY, WE WILL CLAIM THE GOLDEN GOOSE FOR OUR OWN, AND WE WILL HAVE THE BEAN FEAST!!!!!

I moved perpendicular to the door, now on my right, placing Bizarro-Augustus and her fake bag on my left.

As the theater doors opened, Sara and I, using our God given asses assets, whirled through the door, boobs and butts blocking all other access, leaving the dazed Skeletor quite behind to contemplate what she just learned.

Don’t mess with the bad eggs.

The show to follow was filled with grand plies and arabesques aplenty, but I dare say the door-block-pirouette performed by the incensed-fat-girl-duo rivaled that of any dancer on stage.

There’s no such thing as a stupid question.

Oh, but there are.

Are you asleep?

What are you barking at?

Is Diet Pepsi ok?

And beyond displaying one’s, um, lack of thought processes, some questions just don’t need to be asked, especially if you’re asking a woman.  Allow me to present the top five (or six.)

5. How old are you?

Don’t waste your time.  The answer will, nine times out of ten, be 29.  And besides, it’s kinda rude. There are other ways to approximate a woman’s age.

In the course of conversation, mention Duran Duran.  If her eyes sparkle a tad and her mouth curves up a little at the corner, she’s in her 50s.  If she straddles the nearest tubular object and starts belting out Rio she’s in her late 30s, early 40s.  If she rolls her eyes, early 30′s, late 20s.  If she says, “Who?” she is under 20 or over 70.  And chances are if she’s over 70, she’ll have already interrupted to relay some trumped up cholesterol statistic she read in Prevention or tell you how much you remind her of her late husband, Percy.

4.  Are you mad at me?

Again, a waste of energy because the answer is yes. Instead of assaulting her with questions, go sit quietly and try to figure out what it is you did to screw up.  If, after much soul-searching and self-reflection you cannot figure it out, check her Facebook status.

3.  Are you PMSing?

Yes.  Yes I am.  As in Put My Shoe up your chute for being a sexist swine.

2.  When are you going to have kids?

Mostly, this is NONEOFYOURFREAKINGBUSINESS.  But also, it may open cans you had no intention of opening, and before you know it, worms are writhing at your feet, flailing about in your desk drawers, and wriggling in your pockets.

For one, she may be experiencing fertility issues, making you the insensitive JACKHOLE who reminded her how barren she is.

Or, perhaps she’s not planning to have children. Some people CHOOSE not to procreate.  That is fine.  It is not a mandatory human exercise, and a woman is no less a woman if she chooses not to bear offspring.  It is a personal—and private, I might add—choice, and I’m pretty sure she’s not interested in your opinions and/or admonitions.

And really, if a woman is planning to have kids, you’ll know without having to ask, because she will constantly be jabbering about her basal temperature and mucous thickness.

(Aside: Remind me to discuss over-sharing one day.)

And the number one question NEVER to ask a woman…

1.  Are you pregnant?

She may just be overweight.  And then you’ll feel like an idiot.

She may have just delivered.  And then you’ll have to hear all about how many times a day little Dakota makes a puddin’ in his diaper.

She may be having trouble conceiving, and be undergoing hormone treatments that cause a little weight gain. And then you’re just an a-hole.

Unless she is writhing on the ground and you can see the baby’s head crowning, DO. NOT. ASK. THIS.

EVER.

I MEAN IT.

I’m not just picking on the boys here, either.  Both sexes are guilty of making these queries.

Stop it.

Update:  My good friend Josh pointed out that I forgot to include How much do you weigh? Yeah, don’t ask that either.

The idea, though, is that while many of us are willing to show our raw, flawed selves in our writing, few of us are as courageous when it comes to our appearance. I am especially guilty of this.  Everyone who knows me knows I don’t photograph well.  My eyes are shut a lot of the time, or my mouth is doing something weird, or I’m holding my head at an angle that makes me look like Blair’s cousin Geri on The Facts of Life.  So, any photograph I lend to the Net has at the very least been cropped, more likely airbrushed, and almost certainly enhanced with sepia tones or some other artsy effect.

I must admit the thought of what I’m about to do fills me with dread.

Why?

Because I’m soooo vain, I probably think this blog is about me.

I’m vain, yes, but I’m not conceited about my appearance.  I know full well that by no stretch of the imagination am I considered a beauty. But I do believe in taking what you are given and doing the best with it you can possibly do, and if that means obsessing over each pore and strand, and analyzing my likeness in every mirror I come across, so be it.

And, because it helps me do the best I can with what I’ve got, I’m hesitant to appear without my makeup.  It gives me eyes, for one thing.  My brows and lashes are blonde.  Without brow-definer and mascara, I have pea-eyes.  It also evens out my skin, albeit not perfectly. There is no perfect match for my skin, despite the claims of Loreal and their tiny little paint-roller. In all my years of perusing products offering an exact match, I’ve yet to find the fair-but-blotchy-around-the-nose-perpetual-zit-somewhere-on-chin shade.

Then there’s the lip issue.  Anyone born to a woman who was a teen in the 50s, when drugstores carried ten shades of lipstick and every one of them was red, has heard some variation of the following:

Put some lipstick on, you look dead.

And so, I hesitate to show you my non-even, pea-eyed, no-lipped self.

I am also reticent to post my unmade face because I don’t want it to be construed as my fishing for compliments.  Nor do I want to be patronized with sympathy comments.

But I’m doing it, because I’m a monkey/sheep/robot.

So, here goes.  This photo is UNTOUCHED in any way.  It was taken with my laptop. My hair is clean, but not fixed at all, and I am eying you with suspicion because I think everyone is suspicious.

Enjoy.