Part IV – Whorelegs

It’s not often I find a new deity to worship (albeit temporarily), especially one possessing only legs that are gaudily clad, proudly spread, and pointing skyward. Because of this I am devoting an entire entry to Whorelegs. After you read this, you may want to start a Cult of Whorelegs. Just remember where you first heard about ‘em.

::eyebrow scowl::

Although the Neurology Conference was at the Contemporary, due to financial constraints we stayed at the Holiday Inn in Kissimmee. Remember, it’s kiss IM mee not KISS im mee. I think we spent more time driving back and forth than we did at the actual conference. Neither Boss nor I enjoy navigating through unfamiliar areas nor are we adept at reading maps, although he’s still more skilled in this area than I am. I tend to confuse east and west (especially when nervous), but never north and south…???? I suppose this is a form of directional dyslexia. Our rental car did not have one of those GPS gizmos. So, OMIGOD! It was up to us. Sadly, it was like being a remoteless couch potato.

We drove from the airport to Kissimmee—after a wrong turn down Boggy Creek Road. Boggy Creek Road appears to go on forever. The cemetery we passed on Boggy Creek Road was the final resting place of those hapless travelers who got lost on Boggy Creek Road and never found their way back to the interstate. When I first saw the name of the road I flashed to an old, poorly-made documyth about Bigfoot some childhood friends and I shelled out our allowance to see at a local theater: The Legend of Boggy Creek. (It was good for a cheap thrill and a couple of nightmares.) Not the same thing.

That Boggy Creek was in Arkansas. I didn’t know this at the time, and when you’re on a lonely, unfamiliar, two-lane road in a rather swampy area at twilight it’s easy for the imagination to stretch every furry critter you see to Yeti-like proportions. Mind you, I don’t actually believe there’s a Bigfoot lumbering about in heavily-forested, virtually unpopulated areas. I plan on remaining skeptical until I see video footage of Bigfoot that isn’t from a distance of 200+ yards and isn’t shot by a cameraman with a serious case of tremors (a la Blair Witch Project). In short, I need to see video footage of some intrusive human (probably a goddamn extrovert) being chased down and batted around by Ms. Yeti (hey it could be female, you know). Then I want footage of Sasquatch courteously plucking a hair from his/her pelt and shoving it up the left nostril of the offensive human before departing in high dudgeon. Thirdly, I want a thorough analysis of Sassy’s DNA. But I digress. You should be used to that by now.

Like most folks the first thing a driver and passenger look for in this type of situation is a structure, building, landmass, corpse, or something that can be labeled a stable landmark for future reference. Through dumb luck we finally made our way east on US Highway 192, which took us right into Kissimmee. It was then we saw our landmark.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: Whorelegs.

I know you’re thinking Boss coined the term, but nope. ‘Twas Klickoff who said, “Christ, what’s that? Looks like a pair of whore legs.” And the worship began.

Remember at this point it was nighttime, so naturally Whorelegs was proudly, miraculously aglow with tawdry whorelegginess and was situated conveniently right across the street from the Holiday Inn. For these facts, we gave thanks.

During our many trips back to the hotel we paid homage to Whorelegs in our own way: With affectionate looks in Whorelegs’ direction and by uttering words of respect and awe. Seeing just part of Whorelegs on the horizon was reason to rejoice.

Klickoff and Boss: O’ Joy! Rapture! Whorelegs! We’re almost there! Blessings upon ye, Whorelegs who doth showeth us poor mortals the way to the sacred Holiday Inn where Lo! there is always room!

Failure to see Whorelegs filled us with dread, for then we realized we’d made a wrong turn, which provides a nice segue to the night we drove back from the Florida Keys.

Do you know how fucking LONG the state of Florida is? Keep this in mind. Now I must pause and acknowledge the fact that Boss drove ninety-five percent of the time. Kudos!

Picture this: It’s around midnight, we’re headed back to Kissimmee, and we’re both exhausted and bummed because the Keys were fantastic and the thought of flying back to Oklahoma blows. Boss wanted to arrive at the airport at 5:30 am, which meant we needed to get up at 4:00 am. As so often happens in these chaotic, topsy-turvy times, we went west instead of east. Or was it east instead of west? Regardless, we knew a major error had occurred when we failed to glimpse Whorelegs on the horizon. Not even an ankle.

Klickoff: Well, shit.

Boss: Oh no. All I see are police pulling people over and billboard advertisements for lawyers.

Klickoff: I don’t think we’re in Kissimmee anymore. I know for a fact Whorelegs wouldn’t be caught prone in this town.

Boss: Think we should turn around?

Klickoff. Uh huh.

Boss (in a tremulous voice): Okay, because I don’t see any Happy Horseshit (read: Disney advertisements).

Our rental SUV got excellent gas mileage. Hell yeah, that was a good thing. As you can imagine, the drive to and from the Keys really tested the Boss/Employee relationship. Running out of gas would’ve snipped the already tenuous thread linking us together.

You know, when you’re lost time slllowwwwsss waaayyyyy dowwwnnnnnn. In reality, it probably took around fifteen to twenty minutes for us to start noticing Happy Horseshit.

Boss (doing the pointy-pointy thing): Happy Horseshit! Happy Horseshit!

Klickoff: Cool. Keep driving in this direction.

The sum total of my navigational skills involves the sole phrase, “Keep driving in this direction.”

Boss (voice still tremulous): I want more Happy Horseshit, Whorelegs, a cheap motel room, and booze. I shouldn’t want these things. But I do.

Klickoff: I know. Keep driving in this direction.

Never were two people happier than when Boss and Klickoff espied a bit of neon leg. Ah yes, there they were: Lit up like a bordello, lustily erect, and ready for action. Whorelegs: The sleazy savior of travelers on US Highway 192. A decadent symbol of hope. From somewhere in the sky toned a sonorous voice that rumbled:

“Follow the Whorelegs! The Holy Whorelegs of Kissimmee!”

Audio cue: soundtrack from either Ben Hur or Life of Brian.

Suddenly our burden grew lighter. We parked at the Holiday Inn, jumped out of the SUV, and fairly danced to the elevator where we stood inside for several seconds.

Klickoff: Well, shit. I guess I need to punch the second-floor button.

Boss: Laughter.

Boss: More laughter.

Any celebration should be accompanied by quality sherry. Part of my corruption of Boss involved introducing him to sherry. He liked it. We poured some into Holiday Inn styrofoam cups. I grabbed my digicam and we both sped downstairs and out the door. Holding the digicam and my sherry (one doesn’t put sherry down without a damn good reason), I took several shots of Whorelegs.

Boss spoke of a desire to christen Whorelegs with an alcoholic beverage.

Boss: We could say, “From this day forward thou shalt be known as Whorelegs. Whorelegs shall be thy name. Thy name shall be Whorelegs.”

Klickoff: You know, we’re already considered bane in the Magic Kingdom. Do you want the citizens of Kissimmee to shun us as well?

We eighty-sixed the christening idea.

To make a long story even longer, we ended up scheduling a later flight and didn’t get home until almost midnight.

I know you’re wondering, “What the hell was Whorelegs supposed to be?” I’d love to be a total asshole and refuse to answer, pontificating about the importance of symbolism as opposed to the mundanity of Whorelegs’ true mechanical function. But I won’t. I located the website for Old Town fun park. I do believe Whorelegs' true identity is either the “Human Slingshot” or “Super Shot.”

For your amusement I present Psychedelic Whorelegs:

This is what happens when you’re simultaneously sipping sherry and playing amateur photographer.

Part V, coming up.

Until next time,

Quaalude

Part III: What the Christ is this happy horseshit?!

Yes, there’s a Disney World Police Department to maintain law and order within the Magic Kingdom. After all, those who refuse to behave magically must be disciplined. There's even a website that advertises a year-long membership in the Disney World Police Department Study Program for a one-time fee of $24.95. Observing the DPD driving to places off the beaten magical path, Boss and I couldn’t pass up yet another chance to indulge our dark humor. (Confession: Boss never had a dark sense of humor until our trip to Disney World. My graveyard persona cast a shadowy net over an otherwise optimistic young man. I’m just rackin’ up the karmic debts. In Boss’s own words, “I’m seeing the Magic Kingdom in an entirely different light now.”)

Boss: Oh my god, there’s a DPD car. They’re driving the police dogs to an area where drug transactions take place. I wonder if the dogs are capable of sniffing out the Disney Crack and the Pixie Dust?

You see, Boss had his doubts because the DPD police dogs looked suspiciously like Pluto and Goofy who were more apt to walk around in circles in a vain attempt to sniff their own asses and, once successfully sniffed, bark out the words, “I found it! I found it!”

The monorail was an interesting mode of transportation. Once inside a passenger could hear the same tape-recorded messages over and over again.

Over and over again.

Over and over again.

It could be confusing at times because one tape-recorded message often interrupted another tape-recorded message:

Message: Upon departure, please take children….

::crackle crackle::

Klickoff: Please take children? What the hell? Take them where?

Message: …We are now arriving at the Polynesian resort. Please remain seated until the doors open….

Message: …By the hand while departing the monorail…

Klickoff: What the hell was that? Disney Esperanto?

Boss remained true to his newly-acquired dark humor the entire trip. He coined the phrase “Death by Monorail.” Those who can no longer take the saccharine-laced atmosphere simply jump on the small rails (bus bars) running along the side of the beams. Six-hundred VDC going through a person’s body should do the trick.

In the olden days cartoons were a lot more bloody and realistic. Cartoon characters died over and over—in a repetitive manner eerily reminiscent of monorail tape recordings--and each time they died (maybe several times during one cartoon) their spirits left their bodies and moved up toward some sort of great cartoon hereafter. Remember those days? This is my fear: Were I to choose death by monorail I would immediately find myself in a Disney purgatory where all those disembodied spirits from Ancient Cartoon Times roam freely, trailing ectoplasmic colors of pastel pink and blue except those who existed before Technicolor. Only shades of gray for them.

Death is no escape. There's even a haunted Disneyland website. After a few seconds of Googling I found a haunted Disney World website. You can check in, but...

Boss and I had each been to Epcot previously, but we walked around Epcot again—enough to make our toes cramp. We ate at Morocco. I’m actually surprised the Disney Overlords don’t charge folks to use the toilets, and believe me if they did the cost would increase for having the audacity to toss in a bowel movement on top of urination. God only knows how much a person would have to pony up for puking. Disney is a gargantuan money-making machine. I caved and bought some souvenirs. The Goofy hat I purchased for my 18-year-old son was around $25.00. I knew he’d appreciate the utter ridiculousness of it. In fact, when I suggested he pose for a photo he was more than willing to do so, to which the following picture will attest (it's a bit blurry).

(For those of you who think I would use parental force to get him to do such a thing, I’ll bet you’re feeling really silly right now, huh? I ask you, does this kid look traumatized?)

Naturally I felt compelled to purchase a Grumpy baseball cap for myself. ::preens:: It seemed appropriate.

What’s the first thing that stands out in a photograph of Epcot Center? The one thing everyone recognizes as being unique to that region of the Magic Kingdom? I’m going to let you in on a little theory of mine. I firmly believe it’s Mickey’s ball. I believe this because Mickey’s voice is so high it is virtually impossible that he sports two testicles. In order that his voice have the correct pitch, they excised one testicle, waxed it with Nads© to get the hair off (pun intended), enlarged it, made it look like a golf ball, and stuck Spaceship Earth inside it. I wonder if someday we’ll advance technologically to the point Spaceship Earth can travel around the moon? It would be quite a coup for the US to launch the first space nut.

After walking, driving, and much mockery we left the Magic Kingdom, but only after we brought record low temps to Disney World and left in our wake freezing flowers shivering under blankets that had been placed on top of their petaled heads by concerned folks we never actually saw. They probably traveled along a continuum located in the Disney dimension. (A continuum, according to dictionary.com, is “any compact, connected set containing at least two elements.” The two elements in this case being Disney Cracknium and Pixie Dusticon.) I have never seen people freak out like Floridians when temps fall below 45 degrees Fahrenheit. Yes, the temps dropped to near freezing, but damn people. Try flying through Kansas City where -2 degrees was the high for the day.

As we were driving away for the last time, we noticed a billboard advertising one of those Disney bug flicks--maybe, A Bug’s Life or something…? At any rate, as with most things Disney it was a semi-animated billboard because it looked as though smoke was drifting out of the ass of one of the ladybug-like insects. I know this wasn’t intended to look like steamy flatulence, but nevertheless…

Klickoff: My god, that bug’s farting in our general direction. It’s letting us know the Magic Kingdom has been defiled by our presence. It’s a way of saying, “Get thee hence, reprobates.”

Boss: Laughter.

Boss: More laughter.

During one of my journeys through the great and powerful Google I found an article written in 1971 about the opening of Disney World. Now isn’t it simply remarkable that the title of the article was, “Disney World: Pixie Dust Over Florida.” Hmmmm??? My favorite part of this article concerned a woman who was just trying to get back home.

“The only untoward incident took place when a somewhat confused woman sought free admission because, she told police, ‘I am Cinderella.’ The Disney cops, primed for any emergency, lured her away by telling her that their police car was a pumpkin.”

Jesus, why not hire the woman? The assimilation phase of Disney training would have been unnecessary, thereby saving Disney some cash.

By the by, no matter how bored you may be, NEVER drop acid at Disneyland. I'm going to err on the side of caution and apply the same warning to acid droppage at Disney World. Let's not even discuss the possibility of Disney flashbacks that will be transferred through your genetic code to your descendants.

More later.

Until next time,

Quaalude

Part II: What the Christ is this happy horseshit?

I’m not really into vehicular conversation, whether as a driver or passenger.

This clearly confused Boss, who is used to traveling with his partner—a man who emits a steady stream of conversational English as a general pastime. He’s a kind man, a giving man, an idealistic man, a funny man.

And a talkative man. ;-)

Boss: So I guess it’s going to be colder than usual in Florida while we’re there, right? ::chuckle:: Isn’t that just the way it goes?

Klickoff: ::shrug:: Yeah.

Boss: ::keeps looking at Klickoff::

This type of scenario rapidly becomes the norm.

After a couple of days Boss realized that the way to render Klickoff chatty is to buy her an alcoholic beverage. Klickoff likes free drinks. Both Klickoff and Boss are happy.

We arrived at Ye Olde Will Rogers Airport. Boss mentioned he found it amusing that two OKC airports—Will Rogers and Wiley Post—were named after men who died in the same plane crash.

Ah, Oklahoma. The only state whose state floral emblem is a parasitic plant.

We checked our baggage in with little difficulty and passed unbeeped through the security portal. We flew on Southwest airlines. The first time I flew I was amazed at the lack of space inside planes. Cramped! Nothing had changed. In fact, I’m convinced it was the same plane. I managed to endure that special, stomach-smashing-into-the-thyroid-gland takeoff feeling of going down rapidly in an elevator from floor 112 to floor 1.

Why my stomach is reacting as though we’re going down rapidly instead of going up rapidly is a mystery the FAA has yet to officially solve. I’m sure I could locate an explanation for this backwards physiological oddity in some dry, dusty academic/scientific/medical tome, but knowing the exact reason won’t make the feeling go away. In the end it really doesn’t matter whether my stomach shoots out of my mouth in one phlegmy wad or threatens to splurch rapidly forth from my vagina.

The feeling sucks wolverine balls and thankfully it’s short lived.

Our layover was in Kansas City. We went from 20 degrees Fahrenheit to minus 2 degrees Fahrenheit in just 60 short minutes. Damn right we never ventured outside the airport into those Kansas City temps. We moseyed straight into a Mexican restaurant (Taquitos? Or something like that.) They had an interesting rule that everyone must be carded who orders an alcoholic beverage. I could be a blue-haired, shuffling, centenarian on the brink of mummification and I’d be asked for an ID. Great for the ego in the minds of those customers who don’t realize that this is simply a rule to be applied across the board for those employees too stupid to detect a person’s age via a visual once-over. Far more likely this was a brilliant ploy on the part of management to cover their asses and avoid a lawsuit. I mean, really, can you imagine carding someone who looks old enough to remember dancing the Charleston until dawn at a local speakeasy during Prohibition?

We arrived at the Orlando airport after a relatively peaceful flight. That means neither one of us had to endure undue turbulence, children-without-boundaries, people with grossly substandard personal hygiene, loud-ass-jaw-flapping idiots, drunken fools, etc., etc. I’ve no doubt that anyone who has ever flown to a significant extent has a couple of stories up their sleeve beginning with the words, “Lemme tell ya about this one flight I was on…”

The neurology conference was at the Disney Contemporary Resort Hotel, dangerously close to the Magic Kingdom where they claim they want to make your dreams come true. I have issues with this. Frankly not one dream of mine ever came true during my short stay. Perhaps we simply didn’t spend enough time in the Magic Kingdom proper. Perhaps we made another mistake by never smoking what we eventually labeled Disney Crack or snorting it’s more expensive variant, Pixie Dust, which at least would’ve made us feel as though our dreams were coming true until the drug wore off.

In an attempt to determine what caused the relentless cheeriness of the Disney employees I actually asked a cashier at a snack bar in the Contemporary whether or not their employers gave them drugs to elevate their serotonin to what Klickoff considered a completely unhealthy level.

The cashier’s eyes widened as she laughingly said, “Wow, I wish they did!”

Everything a Disney employee says is stuck, smack dab in the middle of a laugh or chuckle. These people even waved and made like toothpaste ads each time a monorail zoomed by. The monorail goes right through the Contemporary by the way. Apparently each Disney job description tacks on a sweetly-smiling, sugar-coated suggestion coating a befanged, foul-tasting threat:

"Members of the Disney Team are always cheery and helpful and radiate that Magic Kingdom glow. Team members must wave and smile at the customers as though their work day were one long parade and each team member the queen or king on the Disney parade float."

I may vomit.

Anyhoo, this is why Boss and I invented the imaginary drugs Disney Crack and Pixie Dust. It was simply our way of dealing with perky behavior only a Quaalude or a two-by-four upside the head could cure.

I think it was at this point that I voiced a desire to knee Mickey and Donald in the crotch. They were singing and dancing with the kiddies on the other side of the snack bar. Thankfully they kept their distance. It was also around this time that I began uttering the phrase, “What the Christ is this happy horseshit?” whenever I spotted something or someone nauseatingly Disneyesque in appearance.

Part III coming up.

Until next time,

Quaalude

Part I: What the Christ is this happy horseshit?

a/k/a Klickoff versus the Happiest Place on Earth.

Seriously, I AM grateful that going on the occasional trip to a conference is part of my job. I'm grateful that my boss and I are able to travel together without one of us plotting the other's death. Remember that one hour of traveling together--especially in a car--is actually seven human hours. So one might say that what we think of as travel hours are actually dog travel hours. When you consider this, the fact that we are both speaking is even more miraculous.

I'm grateful that the company pays for my trip, which includes eating at nice restaurants and staying at respectable hotels instead of hosing down two-all-beef-patties-special sauce-lettuce-cheese-pickles-onions-on-a-sesame-seed-bun three times a day and crashing out at trucker bunkers. I'm grateful that my boss, a mild-mannered Clark Kentish young man, is the Oklahoma version of Rodney King in that he simply wants everyone to get along. This helps enormously when I'm at my most crankxious. "Crankxious" is (obviously) a combination of cranky and anxious--a quality I exhibit when I'm driving and suddenly I realize that I'm entering a bizzybizzybizzy metropolitan area--an area that eats out-of-state drivers like chickens eat Lyme ticks.

Although we were in Florida, I'm sure happy vacationers staying at the Fairmont Banff Springs hotel in Alberta, Canada heard my brass-gong voice saying, "Okay. I need to pull over NOW because I'm not driving in this traffic." If they didn’t actually hear it they no doubt experienced inexplicable chills that began at their coccyx and moved up to their brain stems, causing a temporary sensory overload. This tone always causes my poor boss to widen his eyes and think frantically for a solution that will return my voice to its normal low, raspy pitch which can be attributed to cigarettes, alcohol, and the enraged screaming I occasionally indulge in at home when I’m all alone except for cats and spooks.

Somewhere I heard that 80 mph is actually legal on the Florida turnpike.

I believe this.

I'm also overwhelmed by crankxiety when I fear that the mountain of packages we ship back and forth for conferences is going to catch the eye of an overly-zealous, Bushite security guard who subsequently escorts me to The Back Room and interrogates me mercilessly until I shriek, “Okay! Okay! Each package contains waxen images of Bush and Cheney engaged in hot republican donkey love! Are you happy now, you fascist freak?”

Thank the Universe that I got through security each time without an incident. You see, I hadn’t flown since the eighties and things have changed a bit since 9/11. It sounds politically incorrect, but I’m sure the fact that both of us are Caucasian and Bossman resembles the all-American Boy Scout kid whom every mother wants as a son helped considerably. Well, that and the fact that Boss is a frequent flyer and knew exactly what and how to pack, as well as security dos and don’ts—facts that he graciously imparted to me before we ever embarked on our first long journey together.

Our trip began at 7:00 am, and it was goddamn COLD. We met at work and we drove his Escalade to the airport. Escalades are fancy cars. Just how fancy? Well, I’m getting to that. After we loaded all the shit we had to transport, I stepped up into the car and sat down. I was silent for a few moments. Then:

Klickoff: “IS SOMETHING WARMING MY ASS??!!!!!”

Boss: Laughter.

Boss: More laughter.

Boss: That’s just the butt warmer.

He showed me the butt warmer button on the fancy control panel of his fancy car.

Klickoff: Jesus, I thought I was having some sort of hot ass flash. It’s kinda nice though.

Nothing like nice, warm buns in the morning—both to eat and feel (my own or someone else's).

You must understand, I drive a 2000 Kia Sephia that was used when I purchased it. It refuses to directly warm any part of my body.

* No ass warmage
* No tit warmage
* No crotch warmage
* No foot warmage

Just the usual heater and air conditioner with the standard dials, options, and vents.

The driver-side door doesn’t even like closing properly when the temperature is below freezing. I’ve actually had to hold it closed while driving until it warmed up sufficiently inside. Due to centrifugal force, holding a door shut while going around corners can be a tad tricky since the door is attempting to flee the center much like my body. (Although some argue that there is no such thing as centrifugal force.)

For those of you thinking, “Oh, that's so dangerous.”

Shut the fuck up. We po’ folks do what we can. Besides, I’m not talking about highway driving. I’m talking about driving around locally at 25-30 mph.

Stay tuned for Part II.

Until next time,

Quaalude

My name is Klickoff and I'm an Introvert

Have you ever entered a restaurant and made the decision to sit at a table or booth in extremely close proximity to the only other person in the restaurant? A person who appears to be enjoying their book, coffee, and food in blissful solitude?

You’ve just annoyed the hell out of an introvert, which means you’re probably an extrovert. How do I know this? Easy. An introvert would have opted for a booth on the other side of the restaurant.

The introvert is now thinking, “Why the hell—when it’s obvious that I wanted to be off in a corner by myself and you have a wide variety of other tables and booths to choose from—would you choose to sit next to me?” By the way, lest extroverts make the mistake of thinking otherwise, even in a public place people have the right to personal boundaries.

Introverts and extroverts differ on a great many issues, but probably the most profound difference (in the areas of work relationships, acquaintanceships, or friendships) is this:

Extroverts: “Boundaries are obstacles to be tossed aside, climbed over, or maneuvered around in some way. If you trusted and liked me you’d open up and let me in. Sharing and connecting are more important than boundaries in a relationship.”

Introverts: “Boundaries are limits to be respected in order to live peacefully and civilly with other humans. If you want to prove yourself trustworthy, respect my personal space. Relationships should involve consideration for each other’s right to a private life without interference or unasked-for advice.”

Okay, okay I might be overstating it a bit suggesting that these polarized attitudes are the norm, but it certainly can seem like “us versus them” at times.

Of course I’m not talking about an intimate relationship involving two people living under the same roof. Clearly boundary lines change a bit in this type of situation.

While reading this blog entry you’ll notice some words that keep cropping up every now and then: boundaries, respect, personal space, solitude, and privacy.

You’ll also notice that my tone is somewhat angry (!), and I cut extroverts very little slack. Certainly a great many of them are not as extreme as the ones I’m describing here. I realize I’m demonizing extroverts and sanctifying introverts, but it’s my blog damnit. Besides, facts are facts. The rules of society are crafted by extroverts and are put in place in order to indulge, defend, and encourage extroversion. The attitude behind the rules goes something like this: Everyone should want to be an extrovert. Introverts are simply frustrated extroverts. Join us! Y’know ya wanna!

Hence my vicious tone.

There may well be extroverts who read this entry and take umbrage at my nasty-ass blogitude. I feel compelled to launch forth a Python quote in expectation of such an event:

“I don't want to talk to you no more, you empty headed animal food trough wiper. I fart in your general direction. Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!”

I’m convinced there’s a Python quote for every occasion.

I’m also convinced that should an introvert suffer from depression the origin could easily be chronic stress resulting from the necessity to live outside his/her comfort zone most of the time. Face it: unless you’re one of the lucky few who can telecommute or create a successful home-based business…you’re screwed. You mustmustmust go out into their world and work in it. Extroverts, of course, don’t understand what the fuss is all about and so they label you antisocial with attitude problems and personal space issues.

There are times I would like to sit an extrovert down and drill a little hole through their skull, into that part of their brain that controls the imagination. I would then like to speak into this hole during which time the extrovert must keep both eyes closed and the mouth shut (and I do mean….SHUT).

Ready?

Okay. It’s time for a little visualization exercise. Picture this as I speak into the hole:

Every goddamn weekday you’re driving/walking/bicycling/whatevering to an office where you’re then forced to work for the most part…all alone. Think about it: there’s nobody around to TALK TO. Nobody. Not a soul. Although this upsets you and the discomfort is overwhelming at times, you must still be productive because you need the money and you don’t want to be fired.

As sort of a teaser, every now and then you see a person in another office or an individual walking past your doorway. Unfortunately they ignore your chatty overtures and treat you as though you were a nonentity. Should you continue in your efforts to grab their attention you’re officially labeled an overbearing, intrusive, buttinski twit and you risk alienation. Oh, by the way, you’re not allowed to speak to anyone else on your cell phone or office phone, and it is against company policy to instant message or e-mail others on your computer unless it's work related.

You begin to feel trapped because the very people who reject you and ignore you are the ones who are always defended by the Powers That Be. This is the way it’s been at every office you’ve worked at.

An extrovert’s worst nightmare, right? Feeling persecuted yet? Thinking that somehow you just don’t ever seem to fit in? Sick of being misunderstood? Tired of life sucking big green donkey dicks? Looking forward to those times when you can truly be yourself—away from those petty shitheads?

Now perhaps you can understand what many introverts go through on a daily basis at the office, and I’m damned if every time an extrovert disrespects a boundary and jumps into a coworker’s business they’re not defended by management. Because, you see, extroverts are people oriented. They’re outgoing. They’re charming. They understand the concept of teamwork.

Or how ‘bout this: They’re pains in the ass with an annoying tendency to flap their jaws more than they actually work. Further, what in the world does being a people person have to do with being a good person? Or even a good worker?

(Don’t EVEN get me started on the teamwork bullshit.)

In all fairness the same could be said of introverts. Outgoing or reserved--neither guarantees decency of character (or a positive work ethic).

I just find it amazing that extroverts are defended and supported with such alacrity, regardless of how inappropriate their actions, attitudes, and expectations. At least this has been my experience in the work arena of life.

This is one of the many minor irritations associated with working around extroverts (I won't go into the major ones as this blog entry is long enough): Never bring something personal to work and sit it on your desk and never wear unique jewelry. Wearing or displaying anything gives an extrovert permission to pick it up, grab it, or handle it in some fashion. This is your fault, too. Remember that. If you don’t want people to be curious, you shouldn’t provide them with such tantalizing objects to be curious about. It’s always your fault and if you forget this at this office, management will remind you. You should just learn to Get Along.

You know, I’ve never assumed that the wearing or displaying of items gave me the right to invade someone’s personal space and handle the item. Where does this sense of entitlement come from for god’s sake? You know what else? I’ve never assumed that a person sitting at a table in a restaurant was in dire need of human contact and that book or newspaper they were reading was just a cover--a cry for help if you will. Aloneness and loneliness are one and the same to extroverts. This is part of the problem.

I am going to wax sexist for a time and relate the following observation: Women, in my opinion, have more problems with the establishing of boundaries than men. Because they have difficulty establishing boundaries for themselves, they have problems acknowledging and appreciating the boundaries of other women. Then there’s that whole connection thing that supposedly women crave, which doesn’t help at all.

Although I'm painting with a broad brush I still have to say that women tend to demand that other women share (usually their painful experiences). If a woman isn't into sharing every aspect of her personal life, she can be shunned by other women with a vengeance. For years now I haven’t felt the need to allow someone into my life to the extent that they drop in whenever they please, think it necessary to meet my husband, and try to become like a second mother to my son. Just the thought of this happening is akin to the feeling derived from driving nails through my nipples (not that I’ve tried this, but I have a great imagination).

And just for the record, I DO NOT have any desire to meet or associate with a female friend’s husband or partner, nor do I care to meet or associate with her kids, grandkids, nieces, or nephews. Thank you, NO. I have to wonder at women who push this as some sort of togetherness test. Fucking weirdos.

Blech. The nails are marching toward my nipples yet again.

Many women I've known sought a connection with me and then exploited the connection to my detriment. In retrospect I must conclude that women desired personal information about me simply because it gave them fodder for gossip and/or a reason to feel superior. Moreover, once they knew my vulnerabilities and experiences they felt they had the right to help, interfere, and judge. It’s simply amazing how quickly women have inserted themselves into my life (when my son was just a little guy) and proceeded to tell me how to raise my kid or interfered whenever I felt the need to reprimand him or exercise any parental authority.

By the by, my membership in the Sisterhood expired years ago so I’m not worried about the above admission. Nor do I feel the need to be some chick’s BFF. I’m waaayyyy past puberty.

I’ll be fair and say that men have problems with boundaries in certain areas. Of course they do. I’ve been sexually harassed at work and elsewhere. I doubt there are many females who haven’t been through this type of thing, and the experience can range from annoying to terrifying. I know that men brutalize women every day in a multitude of ways. Domestic violence and violent crimes against women in general I’ll set aside for another blog entry.

In truth, the times I’ve been harassed by men who refused to respect my boundaries have been extremely few and far between (and they knocked it off when told to do so), whereas disrespect at the hands of women happens to me quite frequently.

Such disrespect can include:

1. The constant use of cutesy names like “sugar,” “hon,” “darlin’,” “babe,” etc. (instead of my first name, last name, or “ma’am”).

2. The ongoing demands for a big ole hug at the beginning or end of a conversation or visit which, if refused, results in hurt feelings, being rudely ignored from that point on, or an act of revenge.

3. An insistence that I share personal information.

4. Attempts to insert themselves into my personal life.

5. Making unwanted and inappropriate comments about my body and/or clothing.

Mind you, should a man commit the above offenses at work, he’d be marched straight into Human Resources. If they happened elsewhere and involved unwanted physical contact in the form of a hug, he may find himself enduring a special agony only a man can feel, if you catch my drift.

Best article on introversion I’ve read in a long time:

http://www.theatlantic.com/doc/200303/rauch

Until next time,

Quaalude

Veteran's Day

It’s one of those days that’s easy to appreciate as just another day off work (for some).

Today, in honor of our Veterans, I’ve posted a picture of Crew 6 of the 458th Bombardment Group. My dad is kneeling and he’s third from the left. He flew on a B24 named the Yankee Buzz Bomb.



















Here’s a link:

http://www.458bg.com/index.htm

According to my mother—who disseminated all the information about my father since he rarely talked about himself—he never really wanted to relate any stories about his WWII experiences.

Maybe he just wanted to relegate those stories to a distant corner of his mind, which was certainly his right.

May the stories of all Veterans be respected and validated—regardless of whether they’re spoken or kept in a lockbox.

I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve yet to visit a VA hospital or volunteer my services in some way.

Until next time,

Quaalude

Then there was a shift...

And I felt it. I actually dreamed that Obama won, which didn’t surprise me. Somewhere I read that when we dream we can tune into the collective unconscious.

All pause now for that all-important snort of derision.

Regardless of why I dreamed about an Obama victory, I awoke at 5:00 am and finally managed through my near-stupor and dirty glasses to determine the facts using the web access on my business cell. I actually cried with relief and joy.

Although I don’t vote for individuals, but rather issues, I would like to state that I haven’t seen this level of dignity and emotional maturity in a candidate since Jimmy Carter. (True, Carter wasn’t adept at playing the political game, but my cynical side suggests that this was because he was so decent.) Coupled with his intelligence and political acumen, Obama has the potential to be a powerful and effective leader indeed.

Potential is a tricky word.

God, how American society needs a breath of fresh air. In fact, the WORLD needs this. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Intelligence cannot function over the long haul for the betterment of humanity unless it’s accompanied by emotional maturity.

I know Barack will fail and disappoint, as well as succeed. I’m also well aware that just because we’ve elected an African American as president does not mean racism has been purged from our society. If Hillary had won, ours would still be a sexist society. I can’t afford to rest on my liberal ass, sighing with relief.

Americans must remain watchdogs. There’s still much work to be done and President Elect Obama has his work cut out for him. I personally will cut him no slack. I can’t afford to.

He must continued to adhere to the humane issues that he’s espoused—issues in concert with my own, which resulted in my vote. I voted for altruism. I voted for positive change. I voted for an end to narrow-mindedness and the cult of Christofascism. I voted for regular folks and their right to a voice that will be heard and respected. I voted for a decent health care system. I voted for an improved educational system. I voted for the environment. I voted for immigration reform. I voted for the unequivocal acceptance of groups heretofore discriminated against simply because they were “NOTs”: NOT white, NOT male, NOT Christian, NOT heterosexual, NOT wealthy, NOT young, NOT pretty.

Even as I feel that cool, refreshing breeze of change I'm still aware of some negatives (among many):

• Republicans have taken control of the Oklahoma Senate. Not surprising.
• Inhofe, that cold-eyed lizard, easily defeated Andrew Rice.
• The fundie beast, Sally Kern, was re-elected.

Makes me proud to be an Okie (she typed while her tongue was firmly tucked inside cheek).

• Depressing article on California's Proposition 8.
• There are still men and women fighting and dying unnecessarily in conflicts throughout the world. "Peace" remains an abstract concept rather than a reality.

Despite these unpleasant truths, I'm still filled with that word I almost jettisoned from my vocabulary: Hope.

For the last eight years a dark cloud has overshadowed America that we sensed rather than observed with the naked eye.

For me at least, it is now dissipating.

Until next time,

Quaalude