A "rude awakening" if even there was one....

I was up 'til late. Or really early, depending on how you like to divide your day up. It was not by choice, really, as my previous posts have alluded to. Oh owie-induced insomnia, what I would do to you if you were a person and I could kick your ass!

But whatever; finally I clamoured up into my beautiful chocolate wooden nest and proceeded to fashion the perfect conditions for a dreaming session - your basic fetal position, with the addition of R.'s arms around my waist, a $200 pillow under my noggin {worth every penny, I kid you not} and the ideal ratio of duvet and cool air against my body.

And then like 10 minutes later, his alarm went off and the whining commenced {that was all me. He bounds out of bed like a gazelle. Do. Not. GET. It.}. But, like the trouper I am, I doggedly pursued the REM state and I am happy to report that unlike Bush's naval propaganda, this really did result in "mission accomplished".

Until.

8:07a.m.

Roughly 2 hours of total sleep, over the course of a 10 hour period. {I'm just saying}.

When a furry ball of "awwww" broke through my gauzy veil of Zzzzzz and landed on the corner on my pillow.

I half opened one eye. Kind of.

Two hazel saucers of excitement peer back at me.

I fished a hand out from under the sea of covers and clumsily proceeded to try and lovingly connect with the hairball of joy, a.k.a Rocky Balboa {Shut. Up. The pound named him. I just live with him and clean his poo box}. His purring would have deafened a hearing aid, which prompted me to try and reason with him:

"Mommy's seeping {I was too tired to pronounce the "h"}. Shhh, mmmkay? Later? Mommy will love you later??" { the end of the sentence rose in more of a plea than an endearment}.

Minutes later, I hear relative silence and feel his tiny body curl up next to my left arm, and I thought 'Smart boy! When you can't beat em, join em', & I proceeded to slowly drift away...aaaawayyyy....

And then! I woke up again because this time? This time the cat was licking the deodorant off of my underarm which is a sensation difficult for even a wordy s.o.b. like myself to adequately describe. Easily the most tickled I have ever felt.

And, I was up.

So technically, he won that battle {but not the war, my furry friend, not the war!}.

Also, he spent the next good half hour going around like he had peanut butter stuck to the roof of his mouth. {which if you think is funny with a dog, you ain't seen nothing yet!}. Karma. She doesn't discriminate between species!

Because although it says it's vanilla chai scented, the word flavoured appears nowhere on the packaging!

And that's why illiteracy hurts.

Between the crosses, row on row.....

The poem "Flanders Fields", written by Canadian John McCrae is permanently etched into the recesses of my mind, back to a time of relative innocence, when my socks had to match my prep-tacular shirt and sweater set, and the day was ruined if Dreamy-Mc-Acne failed to say hello or I lost my LipSmacker on the bus.

I can distinctly recall the lead up to November 11th every year, as the teacher would try and convey the curriculum-centered content regarding Remembrance Day. The smell of chalk and industrial floor cleaners engulfing us as we tested out the patience of the 'still-newish' instructor, & half-heard the history lesson whilst reading the note a friend passed and contemplated whether or not that special pre-pubescent 'someone' might say something in the field during lunch. And then when volunteers were required to read this poem, my hand would shoot up, and that, along with sporting a poppy, would be my contribution to our Elementary School Remembrance Day Ceremony.

Although that kind of makes me cringe now, to realize how removed from it I was, I also have the presence of mind to thank the heavens above that I was privileged and lucky enough to have been born in a time and place that allowed me that luxury. I can vaguely remember returning from a movie night in town with a group of friends to see my Mom & Dad watching what I initially thought was just a show; it turned out to be the first Gulf War. Once again, the kalidascope through which I peered was coloured by the warm embrace of the fireplace, the security of both parents being home, together, watching the news describe the conditions of a place that might as well have been Lilliput for all my geographically dense brain could comprehend. It was "wow, that's terrible" & "those poor people", but truly nothing more entrenched than that.

I would be remiss if I were to lead you to believe that I don't care about others; nothing could be further from the truth. Even then, my parents taught us that it was more important to give, then to receive and that giving back to the community and those less fortunate was your duty. Soup kitchens, volunteering, giving money.... all those wonderful, and yet still wonderously removed endevors.

Not to seem like a cliche, but for me, September 11th was what brought war as close to home here in Canada as it had ever been for me. I will never forget working in a psychiatric hospital, and the cold-water-replacing-blood-in-my-veins as nurses and patients alike held hands around a television in the common room. Channeling 'Chicken Little' and wondering was the sky really falling and were we next? That womb-like safety that I had been carried in since birth was shattered, and since then, I can happily say that I do not feel as removed from the rest of the world on a day like today.

And that's a good thing.

Now when I hear those famous words:

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved, and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders Fields.

the overwhelming thought in my mind was the viceral image of those brilliantly vibrant poppies, splashing the ground with the very colour of life, as I looked out the window, marked by condensation, and looked at the brownish-gray sky shadowed thinly by leafless trees.

Today, when I bowed my head and recited along, I tried to think of all those baby-faces on the news, all 97 Canadians to date, and the hundreds of thousands of others, from each "side", and I tear up because I know that "this" is the price of war. The faces of men and women, usually not even my age yet, and I know that I can never again hide in the cocoon of innocence. I do not have the right. I might disagree with why this war was started, and wish to God above for the answer to the problem of how to extradite our troops and still ensure that the promise of peace has the chance to flourish. But personal beliefs aside, it is those faces, and the lives that they represent and the veterans that they join, in this world, and the next, that I must never, NEVER forget.

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders Fields

Things that struck my fancy today...

Because I am fickle and change my mind more often that a popular street-walker should change her panties, lists like these need to be updated.

So these are a few additions to the world that is moi.

1. The word "ska-douche". Pronounced, ahem, "skaaa-dooushhh", emphasis on the oooushhh at the end. Taken from the fantastically-fabulously-frantically-funny {and any other positive eff word you can pluck from your vocabulary} movie, "Kung-Fu Panda. I know not what it means and so I am consciously going to use it in a variety of situations, both positive and negative, so that the usage potential increases exponentially. Here are two examples:

I just caught the cat playing soccer with his poops again! I am torn as to how to respond to him because whilst I am trying to swallow the rising bile in my mouth, I also want to be encouraging because he is exercising and obesity is a growing problem. So I called him a "skadouche". But I furrowed my brows and wiggled the "do it again and I'll make you into mittens" finger in his face.

AND

"Skadouche, honey! Thanks so much for doing the laundry. {And by "doing the laundry", I mean, giving up and and stop trying to navigate around the pile that has been growing like the SARS virus for a week now and admitting to yourself that when you reply " nope, I think I have enough clean underwear for another day", I am really hearing "Do not touch the dirty linens on pain of death, sweetness". You may now call me a f@%king skadouche under your breath, dear}.

2. The aforementioned movie, Kung-Fu Panda. A little on the short side, but that was only because I was really enjoying the amazing animation {I sound ancient when I say this, but I remember going to see Toy Story with my best friend when we were in high school and sitting in the theatre, mouths agape, at the sheer talent that it took to elevate cartoons into such works of art}, the giggle-worthy script, and {dare I say it? I do. } the heart-warming moral behind it all. I especially loved the fact that after R. and I sat down beside one another on the couch, with a blanket over our knees, the cat {aka. Rocky " the poop" Beckham} crawled up between us, and purred while watching the whole movie with us. It only occurred to me afterwards that he was probably enthralled because the only other panda he has even seen is his chewable puppet, aptly {and creatively...} named, umm, Panda. He was probably a little less "Awww, this movie is sweetly funny" and a little more "Awww, wouldn't it be sweet if I could sink my chompers into his jugular".

3. When R. makes popcorn. Because he makes it just right, and knows just to bring out the salt shaker with the bowl. Have I mentioned that I get my own bowl? In actuality, this is less because I am "special" and warrant it and more that because I add enough salt to leach the water from the earth quicker than global warming, no one wants to share with me. And that's just peachy avec moi.

4. It's finally getting cold enough to wear my pink fleece one-piece feetie pj's! They are electric pink with monkeys and palm trees and flowers all over them and I hearted them for months and although they are about as sexy as well, {you decide.... go over to www.jumpinjammerz.com & they are the puppies right in the middle}, R. ordered them for me. Have I mentioned they are feetie pj's???? They bring back memories of fall and winter evenings at the cottage after a day out with the horses and getting to stay up late with a mug of hot chocolate. Isn't it weird that we can't wait to grow up and then spend our entire adulthood trying to reconnect with our inner child? I wish I could call up younger me {on my prized pair-of-lips-phone-that-was-just-too-awesome-for-words-because-not-only-was-it-in-my-room-but-did-I-mention-that-it-was-shaped-like-a-pair-of-FREAKING-LIPS!} and let her know that I know that you developed young and no-one else has boobs yet and that you don't know whether or not to engulf yourself in a giant men's sweater or risk being given attention that you don't know how to handle, but that you will be plenty old soon enough and the boobs will still be there {well, approximately there, because gravity is a skadouche! }and that it's OK to stay a little girl for a little while longer.

Excuse me, but it's bedtime and I have a date with the past....

Reality. In the form of a note.

Dear You,

It's 3:31 am and I am still up because my tummy hurt and actually woke me up from a dream at 12:21 which reads the same backwards as frontwards which is neither here nor there but is very much an example of the verbal and mental diarrhea I am only too prone to spewing but this is one of the many reasons that you adore me and find me so non-frustrating, right?

No.

I know.

But I thought that after I tried some Gravol, and tea and a book {because I heard somewhere that TV only KEEPS you up when you can't sleep...{come to think of that, I prolly heard that ON TV, but anyway.....} and perusing some wonderful photographs online and writing an e-mail to my brother that wouldn't send because Microsoft improved itself and simultaneously increased it's sucking potential,

AND

listened to the cat's nose whistle {which was cute for about an hour and then it was grating and then it was cute again and then he woke up and pooped and I wished that I only had the nose whistling to complain about}, I thought that I would change things up a bit and write you a "special-it's-morning-note-and-remember-that-I-love-you-and-lunch-is-in-the-fridge-and-we-read-I-need-milk-again-yes!-AGAIN-and-have-a-great-day-and-p.s-I-love-you" note in a way that wouldn't kill a tree.

So here it is.

That took 13 minutes to write. Mainly because the Gravol is making my eyes dysfunctional and I keep trying to interject a 0 {zero} where it has no business being.

Hugs,
Me

P.s.
I do love you very much

and also,
I wasn't kidding about the milk,
{Sorry}

Identity crisis in the wee hours of the morn....

R. & I are awoken from blissful nothingness and as disentangle from one another & the duvet, we try & identify the errant noise that has now robbed us of at least two minutes of precious sleep.

*Sri-tch...scritchity....scritch-scr---itch*

Me: Wtf?

Him: Mmmmft?

Me: If that is another burglar, so help me.... {a true story for another day, folks...*sighs*}

*The sounds continue and I am resentfully about to rise when we simultaneously realize that what we are hearing is the cat looking fervently for China at the bottom of his poo-box {classy, non?}*

R: {finding the power of speech and his sense of humour} Rocky, cut it out! You're a cat, not a fucking archaeologist!

And with that, I broke into a helpless giggle and proceeded to steal the covers, and a few more hours of sleep.

Little Miss Muffet...

Nearly lost her shit on her tuffet

When a spider dropped in to say "Hey"

He flopped down beside her, & crawled up her arm

All hairy & deadly & ready to play.

She was on the phone, with an important client

And couldn't really allude to the melee.

And so, the consummate professional, she shrieked:

"I need-to-put-you-on-hold-now-HOLDnow-HOLDNOW-HOLDNOW! If I may?".

And in her fancy shoes, she whipped off her top,

In a mock pornie form of ballet

Lest the spider {and his invisible friends} think

She was on the menu, as the much awaited entree

{k, so rhyming isn't my thing, but I should get points for trying, nay?}

CWG update

Please keep in mind that I'm easily distracted as is.

In that, Oooooooo, look, shiny! kind of way.

But tonight?

I was not there.

I mean, I was.

Technically.

In a purdy blouse and a pair of pumps that may have hobbled me worse than Kathy Bates.

But my head?

Somewhere else entirely.

I had a meeting with two people and the mechanical wonderment that is zero-tolerance has gone into play.

Bu CWG doesn't know this yet.

And I?

Could feel him in the building all night.

Happily, not in the physical sense.

Because that?

Is grosser than the Q-tip.

Than twenty-thousand Q-tips.

More in the my-spidey-senses-are-a-tingling-&-they-are-screaming-skeeze-alert, kind of feeling.

And sure enough.

Three hours after his shift.

There he is.

In all his pervie glory.

And I kid you not..... I was more distracted than a pedophile in a Barney suit.

{What IS it with me and the imagery? Dear God.}

Perfect Example: I went to Wendy's with a mate on my dinner break. And ordered a baked potato. With broccoli & cheese. And also, a Frosty {high five Lactaid}, with their new happy-topping option of Oreos {I heart Oreos, btw}. At least, that's what I thought I ordered.

And when they went to confirm my Frosty topping, I replied, with absolute certainty:

"Yes, please, I would like broccoli and cheese on my Frosty".

And to give my negotiating skills their proper due, the chick nearly gave me my "special order".

And another thing....

Totally unrelated.

But equally disgusting.


A few days ago?

In the lunchroom, right outside of the classrooms?


On the counter?


Next to a kettle?

And below the slew of microwaves?

Was a Q-tip.

Used.

Barf me a bucketful, why don't ya?

Seriously, who is heating up their Lean Cuisine & thinks, "You know what would be an awesome decision right now? To clean my cacky ears out with this here cotton bud. And whilst I'm at it, let me leave some of my waxy DNA for the next poor soul who needs to nuke their nummies.".

After they empty the contents of their stomach.
Obviously.

And I preface this with the statement:

I really do think he would fuck a donkey.

But still.

So......

People.

My Monday night?

Was eventful.

In that, I-feel-the-need-to-shower-extensively-to-wash-the-muck-of-someone-else's-twisted -psyche-off-my-spiritual-skin, kind of eventful.


This is the skinny.

I work in a large environment. Filled with many, many different kinds of people. Most of whom? Add positively to my life in some manner. Some, albeit, more than others. But most? I would not complain about.

Unless I was feeling bitchy.

And also, petty.

Which happens sometimes. Especially when I'm tired. And hungry. And stressed.

But that is neither here, nor there.

To recap: most people, thumbs up.

But there is one guy.

Whom we shall call "creepy white guy".

'Cause that's really what I call him.

You know, the kind of guy whose picture you would not be surprised to see posted in the newspaper, under the heading: "Man! Molester! Children, animals, he knows no bounds!!".

Seriously.

This guy could not fit the stereotype more if he tried.

Hard.

The kind of guy you could imagine {but don't. Please.} masturbating to Reader's Digest and having skinned kittens hanging from his ceiling.

Yeah. I do have a way with the imagery. I apologize in advance.

Back to the story.

So, "creepy white guy" has been making me uncomfortable for some time now, if for no other reason, then he was giving me bad vibes. And then I noticed that he always tried to insert himself {I'm sorry for that one too} into conversations where females were involved and he, simply, should not be.

And also, he looks down shirts.

Blatently.

I first saw him do this a few days ago. To a girl who is lovely and beautiful. And also? Barely legal. And I thought maybe that mine eyes were deceiving me. But I said something to her.

And started paying more attention.

And then tonight. I was dealing with an issue and he strolled on up and gave his opinion. Totally work related. High five. No biggie.

And then says, & I do quote, "You remind me of something".

And because I have an inquisitive mind, and also because I truly did not know where he was going with this, I said "What?".

And he, as he looks directly at my breasts, says ....

"Strawberry Ice Cream".

*ahem*

I was torn. Inside.

What I wanted to do: was say "What the fuck?".

What I did: was give him a look like I had smelled something foul and then walked away.

That is creepy, right?

I mean, I would much rather a guy openly pull his junk out, swing it around and say" Want some of this bad boy?", so that I could honestly reply, "No, thank you" & be done with it.

But this sneeky, intoverted, pervie, "I'll worm {sorry. Penis reference again} my way into your world, and then hump your leg and pretend that it isn't happening" kind of thing just is making my skin crawl.

So I thought about it. I'm a big girl. A grown-up {so I'm told}. And I've dealt with characters who are much more shady than CWG {I've acron-ized him}. But if he wigs me out, and I know that he is doing this to girls who are still in their teens, then God forbid, he should do something to someone who wouldn't say anything.

Cause I?

Would claw his beady eyes out.

But that is not professional.

So I spoke with a co-worker.

And apparently, {big surprise here}.....he has been warned before.

I know. Shock & awe. The perve has been previously pervie. Perfect.

And this means that it goes all the way to head office.

Tomorrow.

Which means tonight, the word went around. And a bunch of us were moved out of the section that he was in, as a "precautionary measure".

I shit you not.

And because, as a group, we are nothing if not mature, we made barely diguised jokes about it for the rest of the evening.

Kind of like the way kids will stand in front of the mirror and say "Bloody Mary" just to prove the elusive boogie man has no real power.

And I have a new nickname.

Just call me Straw. As in berry.

What I have learned so far this week...

1. I am a cynic, and thus my expectations of people were pretty low to begin with. How wrong I have been. They should have been much, much lower.

2. I can make the word "sir" sound like "motherfuckingcocksucker" with very little effort.

3. I have done this extensively in the last few days.

4. MacGyver, I am not. Because, he? Would have been able to escape unscathed from the bathroom stall that imprisoned me at 1 am at work {!!!!} by simply reaching in his purse {he is much more feminine in my world} to fashion a piece of gum and a bottle of lotion into a bomb that simultaneously would break the door down and moisturize the ashy. Me? I kicked at the door 3 times in frustration in The Shoes That Were Meant For Sitting Only and proceeded to sanitarily place toilet paper on the ground as though I were creating a garden path and then crawl on said paper, valiantly trying to levitate. I was unsuccessful, and am currently shooting up antibacterial hand-wash as though it were heroin and I, Kate Moss' boy toy.

5. Wardrobe malfunctions are not just for celebs. Case in point? Monday, when the Boy stopped by my house to surprise me with a hug. Awww, huh? Except. *ahem* I was working later that day. And so? Was still in pj's. Cute, cute pj's. All matchy and shit. Except? The top I chose to wear with the snazzy blue and green pin stripped pants with the darling green ribbon? Was lace. And, also? My nipples showed right through it. Which? I did not notice before. And also? Only noticed after HIS STUDENT {who came in to say "Hey! Nice to meet you Crazy Lady!"} walked back outside to the car and I was all like "He's really sweet and hey it's kind of cold in here...OH MY JESUS, why didn't you tell me you could see MY BOOBS???". Or something.

6. Boys can be really snitty when you accidentally KA-THUNK! them in the testicles. With your purse. Your twenty tonne purse that contains enough supplies to see the world through to the next millennium. Really snitty. Go figure.

7. I can find small joys in mundane places. Names of people that I have actually talked to this week: Bawlhair {and his wife, HarryBushe...k, I made that part up}, Ning Dong {say that fast in your head} & Shaidi Moreles {cross my heart & hope to laugh}.

And it's only Wednesday....

Good Housekeeping

After he cooked us breakfast using every single solitary utensil that he owns....

Boy: The kitchen is full of dirty dishes.

Me: Would you like me to wash them?

Boy: No, not really. I don't feel like doing them either. If only they were self-cleaning...

Me: Well, perhaps if you had a...

Boy: {cutting me off} If only there was a machine. A self-cleaning machine that was specially made for dishes...

Me: You think you are SO funny today, don't you?

Boy: Yes. Yes I do.

Hello Obvious....

A conversation in futility...

Me: Boy, do you feel like pizza?

Boy: {pats his arm & his face} Nope.

Me: {pausing whilst his silliness sinks in} Dude!

Me so horny.

After kissing Boy, who had eaten Hot Sauce with his dinner.

Me: You taste like Vietnamese.

Boy: {grinning all gonad-esque} When's the last time you ate a Vietnamese person?

Me: Dude! I meant Vietnamese food!

Boy: Was it Cum-Of-Some-Young-Guy?

Me: {smacking him on the arm} Boy!

Boy: Ouch! I kinda deserved that one, huh?

Me love you long time.

Talk about red cheeks.....

A dialogue with my mom. If you can consider it a dialogue when one party begins in a coma, & the other ends up there.

Me: {sleepily} Mmmmmelllo?

Mom: Andrea? You will never guess what I saw on the way home tonight!

Me: {going towards the light} Hmmmmm? {fading. fading}

Mom: We have to pass this, well, you know, a, well, a place that, ummm, you know....

Me: {crankily} Mom, what? What did you pass? I'm almost unconsious here.

Mom: Well, T. & I have to pass this, well, an establishment for {she starts to whisper} working girls.

Me: Pardon?

Mom: A cat house.

Me: You passed a strip joint, Mom?

Mom: {all innocent and giggly}. Yes! And you'll never guess what one lady was wearing?!

Me: Ummm, first off, is "lady" really the politically correct term, Mommy? And, let me guess, she was wearing.....ummm, nothing?

Mom: Andrea!

Me: What? You asked!

Mom: Guess again! You'll never guess!

Me: Ok, don't believe in my potential. Tell me then.

Mom: She was wearing {long pause as she musters up the courage to say it aloud}..... pants.....with no BUM!!!!!!

Me: {seeing her blush through the phone} You mean ass-less chaps, Mom?

Mom: Andrea Louise Monica Brennan! You know what those are? You know what they're called?!

Me: {sensing an opportunity too good to pass up} Yup. Got me a pair for those weekends with the Boy in London.

Mom: {hits the floor with a thud as her last fleeting thought is where did I go wrong?}

Wait til I tell her about the nipple tassels I picked up especially for Church...

Tuesday needs to be the new Monday...

'Cause really?

Monday is a spiteful bitch. And to honour that bitch, here's another math problem:

Question:

If a veggie sandwich is eaten on a train going 60 mph at approx. 9 pm, and the mayo that was used on said sandwich was "off" {read: rancid}, and the consumer of said sandwich has no Gravol left, what will happen when her stomach realizes this at approx. 1 am?

Answer:

You seriously do not want to know.

Shakes a weak fist-in-air at the injustice. Damn you, Monday, damn you!

Alive isn't just a movie....

Me: Boy, this rice is delicious. What did you put in it?

Boy: Tomato, onion, garlic, oregano, cumin, cor....

Me: {totally cutting him off} Did you just say human?

Boy: {sighing and looking plaintively at me, with pity. Or something} Yes, yes I did, Andrea. That's what gives it the extra kick.

I ate his liver, with some fava beans & a nice Chianti.

Big Girls don't cry...

They get even.

Due to the boo-hiss-ness of the "death of the Kia" {cue appropriately sombre music}, I once again availed of the train to London this morning at almost noon o'clock. I had woken up at something ugly like 2:53 am, for no apparent reason, other than Jesus? He clearly doesn't love me. And also? This starting work at 6 am lark is conspiring to alter my internal alarm clock, which is happy to go off sometime around 7 pm. This information actually isn't really pertinent, save for the fact that despite the 2.5 hour journey and the opportunity for sleep that it provided, I was desperately trying to stay conscious. Because? With my luck? I would fall asleep somewhere around Cow-Poo-Ville {which Boy informs me is called Ingersoll} & snooze right through to Windsor.

Anyhow.

I was a-minding my own business, reading a novel, listening to some music & aimlessly gazing out the window at the fields of green. I foolishly ordered a cup of tea {I never learn} & once again, narrowly avoided scalding myself due to all the bumpies that started around St. Mary's. There was a middle-aged couple sitting across from me, & as I'm inclined to do when I'm bored, I decided to people-watch. He was thin & mustached & jokey, content to complete his crossword puzzle and eat a scrumptious looking blueberry muffin that I had to physically restrain myself from snatching out of his fingers. She, on the other hand. Oh, She. If "Unhappy" went missing, her face would be on the milk cartons. She was, ummm, large. In the no-neck, boobs-resting-on-knees, looks-like-she-was-smuggling-a-third-world-nation-in-her-pantaloons, kind of large.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

It was the fact that when I smiled and asked them for the time, & her husband answered me, she glared at me. And kind of snarled. And then! When a very polite small child, sitting in the seat in front of her, exclaimed in delight to his father, "A moo cow, daddy! A moo cow!", she gave him a look that comperatively would have made Cruella da Ville look like a supporter of PETA. She kept blowing her nose, which sounded like an elephant with the trots, & THEN! Dropped the Kleenexes on the floor!!!!!

So, all around, not someone I wanted to give a great big hug to.

Finally, the train pulled into London, as the rain spitooned off the windows and I stood up, with my headphones on {but this is key: the music was OFF as I had been listening out for the conductor's station announcement}, & went to walk down the aisle to collect my overnight bag.

As I proceeded to walk past her, she turned to her husband & said, loudly:

"I don't think her tits are real".

And then stared right at the Girls.

The fucking audacity. And also? A woman my mom's age just said the word "tits". It would have been classier to say "fun-bags".

*sighs*

And so I replied:

"As real as your belly, bitch".

And head up high, walked off the train.

Cause nobody puts Boobies in the corner.

Biting my tongue.....

What I actually said:

"Sir, the balance of the invoice is in excess of $3000. Kindly make a payment or we cannot continue to service your account".

What I wanted to say:

"Dear Asshat! Pay your damn bill. Love, The Management".

'Cause I'm all about the customer service.

Behold the classy....

A statement emitted from my seat-mate on the train last Sunday night at late o'clock.

As she took her shoes off.

And put her, umm, "fragrantly" odoriferous feet up on the flip-down tray.

As I held my breath.

And glared a hole through her patchouli scented soul.

And reflected on the fact that patchouli and "feet" are smells that make me want to throw up a little in my mouth. Especially when they are combined into a horrific conglomeration of ewwww.

But I digress.

*ahem*

"It sure is a cryin' shame that I can't watch mah stories tonight. Now where did I done put mah Fritos?".

Yup, she said "mah" not "my".

And then launched into an hour long diatribe on the merits of the show "Passions" and how her life has been touched by the "troubles" that the characters go through. As though she knew them. Personally.

As I perfected the smile and nod technique and contemplated the relative merits of poking myself in the ear drums with the stir stick from my tea.

On why I am not ready to be a parent.

Or own a plant.

It is difficult to maintain that you a self-sufficient, mature adult when the Boy points out, in baffled astonishment, that when you are really, REALLY sleepy, you suck your thumb.

And when you try to deny this, he glances down, and although he says nothing, you know that he is looking at the stuffed animal that you are clutching like a life preserver.

The stuffed animal that you insisted on calling "Tow Truck" to immortalize your adventures on Saturday night.

The stuffed animal that you insist HE refers to as "Tow Truck" as well.

Yeah, I'm totally a grown-up. Now where DID I put my blankie?