Should we be freaking out?

I'm trying not to be a nervous ninny, but would someone please tell me what the fuck is going on with all this?

I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm not so thrilled with the idea of our entire country being on the verge of financial collapse. This just isn't good.

What is next? Total chaos? Should we take all our cash and buy gold? Should I join the NRA and buy a gun in case I need it?

Dale, do you have room on your couch for us?

CP

Coffey Talk - Atlanta style

Gentle Readers,

It is with great pleasure that I announce the real-life meeting of yet another blogger, although this time instead of being in my own neighborhood I had the pleasure of venturing onto the turf of Atlanta-native Beth for an evening of delightful conversation and general debauchery. Let's just say that Beth brought the concept of "Southern Hospitality" to a whole new level, and all of it good.

The day had not started out well at all. I had booked myself on an early flight so that I could get to Atlanta in time to do some conference calls and Webex meetings from my hotel room (which Beth, bless her heart, had helped me find since there was not a single room available in the entire city. Beth's suggestion to stay in Decatur saved me the indignity of having to sleep at the Hyatt out by the airport.)

I was looking forward to settling into my room, taking care of a lot of miscellaneous business, preparing for the next morning's presentation and getting all of it done by 5:30 so that I could meet up with Beth for dinner and a tour of her fair city.

Smelt-ya Airlines put a huge wrinkle into all of this by losing my suitcase which contained, inter alia, the business clothing that I would need for my meeting the next morning.

Now despite the airline's promise that I would very likely have my bag delivered before morning, I was not actually stupid enough to believe them. Or at least not stupid enough to bank my professional reputation on it. So into a cab I jumped and $72 dollars later was delivered to a Macy's not far from where I would be staying.

As Beth had warned me when I called her from the cab to let her know of my plans, this particular Macy's was on the lower end of the fabulosity scale, but I have to tell you I very much enjoyed the experience. For one thing it was around noon on a Wednesday which meant the store was pretty much deserted, resulting in my being able to have a personal shopper do the footwork for me. As soon as I walked in the door I was greeted by a lovely woman who asked if she could help.

"As a matter of fact, yes, I could use some help," I replied. "The airline lost my luggage so I need clothes and shoes for a business meeting tomorrow."

"Well, Sugar, you just leave all that to me," she responded, and walked me right over to the men's section where she began sizing me up. "You're about a 44-long, right?"

Cynthia was uncanny. In addition to knowing my size with just one look at me, she also sensed my style and taste which was pretty remarkable since I was clad only in khaki shorts and a cotton polo shirt. She seemed to know instinctively which colors appealed to me, and when she left me in the fitting room to go find a belt, she even knew to choose one with a silver buckle and not gold.

She was so fabulous that in under an hour I was smartly outfitted with some casual suit separates, two shirts, handsome tie, belt, socks and shoes. (I also purchased some boxers but didn't make her pick those out for me.)

Another cab ride and I arrived at the hotel. Got a bit snippy with the check-in clerk because I really don't understand why hotels always tell you the type of room you requested "wasn't stated in the reservation." Yeah, my ass it wasn't stated. My corporate travel desk has a profile on me and they always request the kind of room I specify (king, non-smoking) when they reserve online. I don't know what the little game is, but I'd rather they just say upfront "you cannot request any specific type of room" instead of pretending they will let you. It's annoying.

I got to my room just in time for a conference call, after which I called Smelt-ya to inquire as to the status of my luggage. "It will be at your hotel by 7:30 am, sir," I was told after about a 20 minute wait.

By this time I had to get changed to prepare for my date with Beth and wasn't able to take care of any other business - including the prep work for the next morning's presentation. No matter, I thought, I'll just do it when I get back, or in the morning.

Ha.

Beth lives about five minutes away and was ready to go since she had been able to take the day off work. (Poor child had been pulling 80 hour weeks for a long time, which explains her extended absence from the blogs.) Although I felt bad that she had been having a tiring work schedule, I was happy to give her an excuse to cut loose for an evening.

We met up in my hotel's lobby and proceeded down the block to The Chocolate Bar, where the plan was to sit at one of their lovely outdoor tables and enjoy a cocktail to wind down from the stress of the day before moving on to a driving tour and dinner.

Scene of the crime

The idea of meeting up with a fellow blogger is always a little intimidating to me because I'm not a natural mingler or people-person. I have always been a little on the shy side and people like Mindy June and Lulu can attest to the fact that it takes years to get to know me -- and for most, even longer to be able to appreciate my quirks.

The amazing thing about meeting people in our blog circle, however, is that we all kind of know each other already through our writing. Because of this, I felt immediately connected to Beth and was able to jump right into a fabulous conversation with her that zig-zagged off into multiple directions within minutes.

Because of who Beth is, with her natural charm, wit and wonderfully casual sense of style, it would have been impossible not to feel at home with her right away. But I have tell you, Gentle Readers, that the connections we have all made with each other because of our collective writing is something very special. We would not all be here together reading about each other's lives if we didn't sense that we liked each other.

Beth and I had a very interesting conversation about just that. Or it could be just me who found it interesting as I went on and on about it while Beth ordered us yet another round of margaritas. But if I was boring her with my non-stop blathering, she hid it well.

We talked about so many different things, and both made references to items we had read in each others' blogs well over a year ago which I thought was pretty damn cool.

Within the hour I announced that she just had to meet Mindy June at some point -- because the two of them have so many things in common it is almost spooky. I'm not saying Mindy is at all replaceable in my life; I'm just saying that I know without a shadow of a doubt that she and Beth would totally crush on each other if they had a chance to meet.

We were both having so much fun with our conversation that we didn't want it to end, and as such remained squarely in our seats, fresh cocktails in hand. By round four Beth acknowledged that the driving tour would have to be postponed which is just as well since getting to know each other was more compelling than visiting the sights of Atlanta at that moment.

I can't even count the number of margaritas we consumed before we were through, but if you total them up between the two of us I know for certain we broke into the double-digits. It was outstanding.

Eventually, we decided dinner would be a good idea and we stumbled on down the street to Watershed as I had requested something akin to down-home Georgia cooking. This place did not disappoint, and despite their having run out of fried chicken prior to our arrival, we made do with all sorts of goodies that Beth unfortunately did not get to enjoy as much as I did because of our over-indulgence on the pre-dinner cocktails. I almost felt really bad for her as I downed an entire plate of fried oysters, a bowl of cheesy grits, most of my okra pancakes and part of Beth's bbq chicken which I swiped from her plate while she was in the restroom (sorry Beth!) It was D-E-L-I-C-I-O-U-S and made my petty crime feel totally worthwhile.

We then stumbled (Beth more than I since she had broken one of her sandals en route) back up the street to my hotel where we enjoyed a lively conversation with the desk clerk about my continuing lack of a suitcase. He took back-of-the-head shots of us on both of our phone cameras, but apparently neither of us is able to transfer the photos from phone to computer. Maybe I could figure it out but I'm lazy. (Update: I figured it out! See beginning of the post. But for the record, I am still lazy.)

I do remember offering to see Beth back to wherever she had to go, but she insisted she was fine and that she was on her own turf and would get home OK. Being too drunk to insist otherwise, I let her wander off into the night unaccompanied, for which I felt really bad when I came to my senses (at about five the next morning.) Thankfully, she did get in touch over email so I know she still lives and breathes. You can even read her recap of the evening here.

To sum things up: Beth is FABULOUS. I absolutely adore her. I strongly encourage you to seek her company should you ever visit Atlanta.

Cheers!
CP

Moving time!

Home at last!

Gentle Readers,

The news is that Poor George and I are moving ---- to San Diego! I leave NYC on Saturday, October 4. I am flying. I am also taking Mama Gin along to the airport so that I can deposit her on a plane out to San Francisco before heading to my own gate to fly to San Diego.

That's right, we will FINALLY be rid of Mama Gin! Although I regret that this will mark the end of The Mama Gin Files. I hope you will still check in at CPW occasionally, even though my blog will subsequently prove far less interesting. Maybe I'll have a crazy neighbor or something although Dale already has a stranglehold on that genre.

PG and I bought a charming craftsman bungalow in a great neighborhood. Let us know if you are ever in the area and we can meet up. I will be there alone for a while since PG needs to stay behind to clean up after Mama Gin and sell the NYC house. Wish him luck.

Love,
CP

My sweet love

A few years back our marketing department had a secretary with social skills rivaling those of Napoleon Dynamite, not to mention all the charm of Joseph Mengele. I'd never seen anyone so cold and abrupt in her interpersonal dealings. Greeting her with a soft "good morning" when walking by her desk might get you a barely audible grunt on a good day.

Latrelle would occasionally be tasked with the duty of notifying the rest of the office whenever new marketing materials or other items became available. These emails would usually consist of the following, as an example:

Go get new user guides in the storage room. (Unsigned.)

One time we had all ordered a supply of personalized desk calendars to hand out to our biggest customers, and they were all sent to Latrelle's attention. The day they arrived I received the following personalized email, with a cc: to her manager:

Come pick up your calendars.

After chuckling for a minute over Latrelle's unparalleled charm, I received an email from Latrelle's manager, albeit in error. (You know, the dreaded Reply All misstep.) This is what it said:

Latrelle, my sweet love. Can you please try to sweeten the tone of these emails a little? They come across a bit harsh. Perhaps you can simply mention that the calendars have arrived, and at their convenience they can stop by your desk to pick them up. Thanks!

My sweet love. Especially when used in an email to correct someone's behavior. I love it! And I have adopted its use as an all around practice. So don't be surprised, both ladies and gentlemen, when I address you as such in both posts and comments. Not to mention real life.

My sweet loves.

Retarded ---- again

This is the logo on my coffee cup. Dale, when are you posting???

Gentle Readers,

A while back I posted about a brief flirtation with retardation I had (hey, that has a catchy ring!) while making coffee one ill-fated morning. I had a similar experience this morning, albeit one not so messy as before.

This time I ground the beans and got them into the brewing basket where they belong. Poured in the water, hit the "on" switch and let her rip.

Then I got the milk out of the fridge, poured some into the Tom Cat cup I've used every morning since 1993, and put the cup in the microwave. (I like a cafe-au-lait effect so I heat up my milk.)

While the coffee was brewin' and the milk was heatin' I got out the sugar bowl and a spoon - I take my milky coffee with 1 spoon 'o sugar. More on that in a minute.

So then I start looking for my cup so I can put my sugar in. Where is the cup? What did I do with it???? No cup! I open the cupboard, not there. Open the dishwasher, not there. Did I bring it into the living room? Nope. Did it just disappear right off the counter??? Fer cryin' out loud, I just HAD the fucking cup!!! Where the fuck is it????

Voice in CP's head to CP: It's still in the MICROWAVE you retard! How many times in your life have you heated up your milk before pouring your coffee? I swear to God, someone should have you killed.

My friend Sarah's mother is a well known (retired) food editor for a magazine. One time when I had stayed overnight at her place her husband and I were both dollying up our morning coffee with milk and/or sugar. She looked at us both with a fair amount of disdain and said "you both need to learn to drink your coffee black." I'm starting to see how she may be right.

Love,
CP

I am still alive

Gentle Readers,

Life has been C-R-A-Z-Y! Which is why I have not been blogging. I apologize. I will explain all soon.

My life as a Strategic Sales Executive will be coming to an end quite soon. I have accepted another job (same company.) I will share the details a bit later. It will be less money, but I am excited about it for a number of other reasons.

In case you were wondering, it is a voluntary move. One of the sales managers I work with comes across as a big galoote (he's referred to by some as a "Soprano" even though he's not Italian.) He speaks that Brooklyn tough-guy patois to the point that I am literally weak-kneed. And he L-O-V-E-S me which makes it all the more fun. I thought he was going to go berserk when I told him I was leaving the position - he immediately ordered me not to accept the other offer until he had a chance to "see what he could do."

This made me nervous because he and his crowd have been known to work the back rooms to get their way, and I was almost afraid he was going to do something to throw a wrench into my plans. But whatever he tried to do, he did not succeed and I am moving forward with my plans.

I was on a conference call with a bunch of people the other day and someone said "hey Tom, I heard Jerry is taking it kind of hard that you're leaving." I replied "yes, I've ended romantic relationships with less drama than he is causing me." Everyone laughed, and inside I felt all giddy that I was breaking the heart of this big galoote.

He's been really nice to me the past two years. In every single fight I've had with his sales reps (and I've fought with virtually all of them) he has taken my side. He pretty much thinks I can do no wrong, and I think there's a little dom/sub action going on underneath it all. He's majorly macho-aggressive and I think he knows that if he flashes his bedroom eyes at me in just the right manner I'll always let him have his way.

Ok, I'd better stop talking about this or George will want to leave me. But he must be forwarned: Jerry and his inner circle of galootes are taking me to an expensive steak dinner sometime before I leave. Maybe I can get them to take me to the Bada-Bing afterward.

CP

Somebody please shoot me

Today I actually used the phrase "My bad!" in an email to a colleague.

I need to get out of here.

Happy Birthday Mindy June!

Happy Birthday to Mindy June!

Of course she won't have as much fun as the birthday weekend she spent with us, but this is her last hurrah in Merry Olde Engeland, or however they spell that, so I'm sure she'll tie one on and start a fight or something.

That cake is supposed to be a Union Jack. Couldn't find one with candles, sorry.

Midwesterners are Weird: Pizza

Midwesterners are Weird is a new CPW series where we will discuss why Midwesterners are weird. Just in case you couldn't figure that out from the title.

I was born an Upper-Midwesterner and remained one until I was 26. So I guess I will never escape these roots that first sprang forth in South Dakota, became cemented in Illinois and were further refined in Minnesota. And I use the term Upper-Midwesterner to clarify that I am from the aforementioned states and not from places some people like to call the "Midwest," such as Missouri (hello, were you even a free state?) or even Oklahoma. I'm sorry, Oklahoma has nothing to do with where I'm from except for the fact that my dad was born there. But that was just an unfortunate mistake.

One time I even overheard a guy from Kentucky telling someone he was from the same part of the country that I was from. I nearly slugged him, except that being Midwestern I'm simply passive-aggressive.

Anyhoo, Mindy June, who is returning to her own Midwestern roots next month after a four-year sojourn in the UK, recently posted about Midwestern pizza. I miss Midwestern pizza, even though I'm much closer to it geographically than poor Mindy June. In the Midwest we like to pound square things into round holes and things like that. One iteration of this would be in the way we cut up our round pizza pies into little squares. It makes no sense, but I like it. It's so much fun to have all those different little sizes. Cheesy treats. Yum. Just fix your eyes on the photo above for a few minutes. Don't you just want to crawl on top of that pie and make sweet love to it?

Funny thing too is that I lived in the Chicago area for 14 years, and now have been in New York for nearly 10 years. That's a combined 24 years in two of the USA's hottest pizza centers. And yet, what pizza would I make the sweetest love to, given the opportunity? What pizza keeps me up at night with my deep longing for it?

It's pizza from St. Paul, Minnesota, from a joint called Red's Savoy. Mindy is right - their pizza kicks ASS. It is perfect. And in proper Midwestern fashion, they will serve you a round pie cut up into cute little squares. It's like your whole dinner is an appetizer. There is nothing bad about Red's Savoy pizza. There is only good to be found there.

And now I am in such craving mode I may have to make a special trip there just to have it. Drool. Slurp.

G'night.

Annoying things my sales reps do and say to me - Hank

Hank is actually not one of my sales reps - he belongs to one of my fellow Strategic Sales Executives. But this is just as annoying as anything one of mine could do.

Bill, my fellow Strategic Sales Executive, is out on vacation and has an out-of-office email message directing inquiries to our boss.

The other day my boss received one such inquiry, from Hank. This is what it said:

"Bill is out on vacation so he can't attend this meeting with me next week. I need someone to come with me, someone who knows Product X very well and who can hit it out of the park. I need them to be able to discuss Product X intelligently with an accounting firm customer, and who can cover all the nuances of the product."


So essentially what he is saying is "I really need help from someone who won't get any sales credit or commission. And they better know what the fuck they are doing."


Asshole.


At first I drafted an email response to Hank as follows:

"Hank, I am available to help you next week, but only with a minimum level of competence. I most likely will not 'hit it out of the park' as you require, but if I'm lucky, may be able to get a base hit."

I did not send it. Instead, I simply replied to my boss, saying "it appears that Hank has very high standards and as such I will not have the time required next week to prepare the level of presentation that would be acceptable to him. Sorry!"




Can I just reiterate that I really, really hate sales people?

Gratuitous cat shots

The rigtheousness of the CP

I'm feeling all self righteous tonight because I did my taxes a whole month before they are even due. Combined with the fact that I spent the weekend reorganizing several bookcases, cupboards, pantries, dressers and closets, end result is that I'm quite pleased with myself right now. (Note that I started to write this back in March, hence the reference to tax season.)

Feeling slightly superior to others is nothing new for me, however undeserved it may be. This all reminds me of the time I decided my young cousins needed to hear a few Old Testament Bible stories and that I was just the boy to take care of it for them.

My parents weren't big on church or religion, although they did require that all their children undergo the standard amount of indoctrination. The trouble for me is that by the time I was old enough for Sunday school we were living next door to the pastor of a fairly fundamentalist-style Lutheran church, and so in order not to be all snobbish or anything, it was his church we ended up attending.

My parents didn't attend Sunday school with me so they had no idea that I was not receiving the usual lessons and sermons on the spiritual benefits of tuna-noodle hot dish and church basement suppers. Instead, I was spending my early Sunday mornings learning all about the various behaviors that would get you sent to Hell ---with the occasional lesson on fearing black people thrown in for good measure. It was all just delightful.

I was quite impressed with all the fantastical Bible stories our teacher told us - all the more so because, according to everyone around me, it all "really happened!" God appeared to Moses as a burning bush and then parted the Red Sea so they could cross it! God told Noah to build an Ark and then had him bring two of every animal aboard! A snake told Eve to eat that damn apple which was the start of all our problems!

Cool!

At one point I received a plastic "Noah's Ark" set with the Ark, two of a bunch of your standard animals, and a plastic figurine of Noah. It was with this Ark that I attempted to indoctrinate my cousins.

One Sunday they were over at our house for dinner, so I brought them up to my room, set up the Ark set and then told them the story of how God appeared to Noah, told him to build a huge boat, made him gather up all these animals and then flooded the whole Earth, killing everyone but Noah, his family and the animals.

The best part is that after every fantastical moment of the story I would stop and say "Ok, now you believe it, right?" They would nod their heads and I would move on. I had to stop and spot check this because I knew that if they did NOT believe the story, they would burn in hell and then I would have no one to play with in Heaven.



I look back on this story today and laugh now. But when I take a step back and look at this stuff in the big picture, I find it remarkable how fucked up it is.

Wow.

Boeuf Bourguignon

Boeuf Bourguignon with bluefoot mushrooms and chopped parsley

Good thing I'm not a violent person

Gentle Readers,

It's really a good thing I'm not a violent person because if I were, the amount of anger I am feeling right now could rear its ugly head and cause me to bitch slap a few Mormons.

I really shouldn't be surprised. It was only a matter of time before the leaders of this tax-exempt institution would launch their attack on gays and lesbians for daring to pretend they could ever achieve equal rights in California by ****gasp**** getting married!

I guess any work the Mormons might be involved in to feed the hungry or help the poor must be put aside until the sodomites are stopped in their tracks! Church leaders are telling their fold to donate "time and means" to ensure that gays and lesbians remain second class citizens in California.

Click here for the whole story.

What do you think we should do about this, Gentle Readers?

CP

CP's Pretend Interviews with Bloggers - Lulu Redux

We recently traveled to Bangladesh to sit down for another pretend-interview with blogger legend Lulu.

CP: So Lulu, how are you enjoying your fabulous ex-pat life?

Lulu: Why don't you read my blog and find out for yourself?

CP: Touchy touchy! But FYI, I do check in with you practically every day, not only because you are entertaining and are doing interesting things with your life, but also because I never know when the next monsoon or whatever other natural disaster is about to hit.

Lulu: I'm very impressed. But do you think my blog is going to inform you that I've been swept out into the Indian Ocean?

CP: Good point. But anyway, my Gentle Readers can click over to your blog if they want to read about Bangladesh. Today we're going to talk about more of our personal history.

Lulu: Imagine that. Well it's not like I have a choice anyway since you're the only one writing this.

CP: Once again, you are correct. In fact, why stop at pretending to interact with bloggers? Maybe I'll get a fake boyfriend I can pretend to have sex with while I'm at it. Or a fake job.

Lulu: You already have one of those.

CP: Very funny.

Lulu: So can we get to the story here? My driver's waiting. And why is it only me you do these fake interviews with? You label these posts "Pretend Interviews with Bloggers," not "Pretend Interviews with Lulu."

CP: Well, forgive me for making you the center of attention. Not much of a princess, are we?

Lulu: On second thought, carry on CP!

CP: Thank you. So I thought it would be fun if we relived the night you came out to my parents' house in that annoying Chicago suburb when we had dinner that time.

Lulu: Oh yes, that was a great night. What came first, the pot or the champagne?

CP: Who knows. Probably the pot, or else we wouldn't have gotten so involved trying to decipher the graphical instructions on the champagne bottle.

Lulu: You mean the picture of the guy pointing the cork side of the bottle right at his face, with the word NO printed in bold letters?

CP: That's the one! And don't forget the other picture of the lady with the bottle pointed AWAY from her, with the word YES.

Lulu: That was quite fun. We both kept grabbing the bottle to point and unpoint it while saying "NO, YES, NO YES...."

CP: See what I mean about the pot?

Lulu: Yes and no. I mean, I had to have been high to sit and do something that stupid for an extended period. You on the other hand....

CP: That's quite enough Lu.

Lulu: And when you went to look for the pot you started in on this stupid voice where you were pretending to be a suburban housewife looking for her drugs. You kept saying "Honey, where did you put the pot paraphernalia? The kids will be home soon. Honey?"

CP: I know, I'm really funny sometimes.

Lulu: Hilarious. Can I go now?

CP: Well wait a second. Isn't that also the night you first met my dad?

Lulu: Oh yes it was. He and your mom came home from a party and your dad decided I needed to hear some dirty joke involving a camel and a French tickler. Your mom was screaming and would not let him finish the story.

CP: Did you want to know how it ended?

Lulu: Um, no thanks.

CP: Well thanks again for pretending to answer our questions here at CPW, Lu. See you in July!

Bacon seared diver scallops with asparagus and shallot cream sauce

Our friend Brad came for dinner. Brad doesn't eat vegetables, and he swept the non-animal elements of this dish aside with one swift move of his fork.

3jesus97, or no votes for girls!

Although the 3jesus97 lady and I have become friends, she still alarms me on occasion. The other day we were talking about some of the trials and tribulations we face on the job along with our worries about the economy. "Be sure and vote for Obama," I told her. "He has the best chance to help us out of this mess."

"Oh, I haven't decided who I'm voting for yet," she replied. "I'll consider Obama but I would never have considered Hillary."

"You don't like her?" I asked.

"Well, no, but it's not really that. I just don't ever want a woman as President."

?????

"Excuse me?" I was flabbergasted that she would say this.

"You heard me, Tom. I don't EVER want a woman in the White House. Women are crazy! We need a man running the country."

Now remember that Sandra is from Oklahoma, but still. She's a successful Strategic Sales Executive, like me, and on top of that she is a single mom. She is a woman and she seems to be doing just fine. I reminded her of this.

"Oh believe me, I know I'm going against my own gender, but I'm a woman and I know women. And we're all crazy. Women are too vindictive. They hold grudges. That will not work in situations involving international diplomacy. Men can stab each other in the back all right, but they'll still go out hunting and drinking together afterward and it will all be just fine. A woman would NEVER go out and socialize with people she hates."


All I could think was that Sandra's mother must have been some bitch.



I think Sandra is sick in the head and I told her as much. She agrees, but still.

Sheeesh.

Poor George and his big fish

Getting ready to poach sea bass

I get to ride the school bus!

I can't believe I have not told this story yet because it is a classic.

We moved to a new town at Christmastime the year that I was in kindergarten, so I had to change schools. I had walked to and from my first school, but my new school was farther away so I was going to have to take the bus.

The school bus! I was VERY excited. I could hardly talk about anything else for several weeks. My whole family talked about it too, and I distinctly remember my dad describing how I was supposed to stand there and wait for the bus to slow down. He made these big hand gestures above his head to describe the alternate flashing red lights that would go off when the driver opened the door, which would be my signal to board the bus. (Apparently he thought the door opening up would not be a sufficiently clear signal for me.)

In any event, I felt well prepared and walked confidently down the street to the bus stop with my mom on the first day of school in January. I got very excited when the big yellow bus approached and did the whole alternate-flashing-light thing my dad had talked about. When the door opened I stepped on, sat down in one of the seats and waved to my mom out the window.

"I'll see you when you get home!" she called out as she waved back.

I was finally a big boy, and more than slightly pleased with myself.


**************************************


Riding the bus was fun, and I enjoyed looking at all the houses and other things out the window during the 15 minute ride to school. But as we reached the grounds of the school and the bus pulled into the parking lot, I came to a startling realization: I had NO idea what to do now that we had arrived. I had received hour upon hour of instruction on how to wait for, board and ride the bus, but no one bothered to tell me what was supposed to happen when I actually arrived at school.

I suppose my parents figured the school would take it from there and guide me along. And they probably would have been right, if they had been putting me on the bus on the first day of school in September when all the kids were new. But they seemed to have forgotten that I was going to be alone in a crowd of kids who all knew what they were doing. They neglected to acknowledge to themselves or to me that I alone would be the clueless one, a phenomenon which would unfortunately repeat itself many times throughout the course of my life.

Although I was borderline retarded, I was no dummy and knew enough to draw upon whatever resources that might be readily available. And at that moment the other available resources happened to be the other kids on the bus.

Not being particularly astute verbally, I didn't even consider asking someone what the fuck I was supposed to do next. Instead, I decided it would be easiest to choose one kid to observe and follow along with whatever he did. I chose a kid not unlike myself: taller, thin and with short brown hair. Seemed like a good enough plan.

My new friend (who didn't know he was my friend) stepped down off the bus and I followed closely behind. He walked slowly across the playground, past small groups of kids who were playing and/or talking before school. He didn't stop to talk to anyone but simply meandered, making large circles around a jungle gym, swing set and other playground equipment. I shadowed him carefully, not wanting to miss my cue.

Eventually my friend approached the door of the school building and went inside, and I followed about five paces behind. He walked slowly down a hallway lined with blue lockers but which was otherwise empty. About halfway down the hall he stopped and turned to face one the of the lockers. I did the same.

My friend leaned forward, resting his forehead on one of the lockers --- and began to cry. Not loud sobbing, but a kind of wide-open mouth silent crying with a long string of drool descending down from his lower lip. I didn't cry, but I did remain standing with my head against the locker, wondering what this morning ritual was all about.



I didn't know it at that exact moment, but the kid I had chosen to follow was the only other new kid, who apparently had a very different way of coping with an unfamiliar situation. I still thought my method was superior, although it had backfired in this particular instance.

A teacher eventually came and rescued us, delivering us to our respective classrooms. I'm not sure if my parents ever received a call from the principal's office or child protective services to inquire what the hell they thought they were doing, just sending me off with no guidance or instruction like that. But they should have.

Of course my mom denies the entire story to this day, which is fine. I'm sure that you, my Gentle Readers can discern the truth.

Seared diver scallops with ham & Comte creme

Seared diver scallops with German smoked ham & Comte creme sauce