Metro-necks (A vent. Move along, nothing to see here!)

FYI, a southern gentleman does not speak of the deuce he just laid, especially in mixed company. The last person to be interested in your BMs was your mom, and she's dead.
A southern gentleman's table manners do not make one wonder if he's just been let out of the state penn. The southern gentleman, when encountering an inedible bit, does not take out the offending bit, look at it, and invite inquiry before placing it on the plate for display.
Expressions like "it was black-rigged" and "I'm doing black work out here" (when not doing embroidery) do not make you appear tolerant. You can't just substitute the word "black" for the N-word. And no, using the N-word is NOT part of our treasured southern heritage.
A southern gentleman is comfortable in all situations, and you, my friend, are not. Your discomfort in situations where you perceive someone to have more than you is palpable.
A southern gentleman is well-educated. "Nuff said.
So, dear friend, I believe you are southern. You are a man, and you are capable of gentlemanly behaviours at times. But you're not a gentleman. The best I can do here is give you the title "Metro-neck" - for rednecks who aspire.

Is There Anything Zoloft Can't Do?

Lately I have been pondering the thought of approaching a 'dear friend' (not her real relationship to me) with the notion that she might *just might* benefit from psychoactive (is that what you call them?) medication.
I've considered how I might introduce the idea that medicine might help my friend's extreme irritability and mood swings - before she alienates everyone on the planet, or worse, before her interns at the university devise a way to kill her and dispose of the body. (There is all of that acid in Graphicstudio , after all - for etching engraving plates and stuff. )
But an incident that occurred very recently gave me another tactic in my campaign to shove Zoloft down this person's throat.
Had I not been taking Zoloft and its special friend in the cocktail, seroquel, I would still be screaming at my husband, instead of going to the computer and writing this.
This is what happened:
We're doing spring chores. I'm anxious to start on my special little outdoor space and R has been giving me advice. So today I asked him, regarding my space: "So we have to power clean first, then sand?" and the man went off.
With arms practically waving in the air, I heard all about what he has to do, what he should be doing. what he can't do but really wants to, and how many times does he have to tell me that you POWERWASH first and then sand? And do I want to have a thousand jobs unfinished because we. don't.concentrate??????!!!!!!!!"
So I calmly replied, "I had forgotten I asked you yesterday. Sorry I got your panties in a wad, but thanks for answering my question, and all that extra stuff, too."
I wish I had thought to call him 'Princess' in the bargain. To call him deserving would be an understatement.
My point is, had I not been taking my wonderful drug cocktail I probably would've said this to him instead: "Fuck off, you paternalistic piece of shit! You're not my fucking DAD! Why can't you answer a simple fucking question without going berserk??!!!Jesus Christ!" And we'd still be fighting.
Now I'm typing and he's mowing and all will be fine.
Granted, it's not as immediately satisfying as reeling off a stream off highly deserved profanity, but I think it might be more productive, in the long run, to our happy marriage. I'm very familiar with the term (but not the concept of ) "taking the higher road" , but happy to report that taking the medicine makes taking the higher road easier.

Canadian weddings are dreadful

I loathe them. They're uniformly awful, and if you want to torture me, I'm sure there are easier ways to do it.
Where I was raised in the south, one had a wedding within one's means. The time of day of the wedding dictated the level of formality and therefore, the cost. So if you're invited to a 2 pm wedding, you know that it's going to be quick. Kiss the bride, eat a piece of cake, make a toast, boom! You're out of there.
But most Canadian weddings, in keeping with their extreme level of inconvenience, are held early in the afternoon. The first time I attended one of those fiascos, I looked at the invitation. Start time for the wedding was 2 pm.  I thought to myself, "Oh, goodie - we'll be free by tea-time!"
Was I ever wrong!
Two pm is only the start of the ordeal. After the ceremony, which is usually short, the next item on the agenda is the reception, but you have to wait at least three hours. For pictures.
Now here is where you get into difficulty because the word "reception" means different things when you're speaking of a Canadian wedding. In some weddings, the envelope containing the invitation can be chock-full of inserts. There is the actual invitation to the ceremony, then there is the cocktail hour, then the dinner, then the dance. Some people can be invited to only one, some to all, some to two: it's not uncommon to have an invitation to the ceremony and an invitation to the dance following dinner, which can start as late as ten pm.
The dance section of the wedding (and the magic hour when you can finally leave) is usually late because of the painful custom of speeches during dinner. The level of torture can vary: if there's a big wedding party, you're in for it. The bridesmaids all like to make the same speeches about what good friends they are with the bride, and we have to hear all about their childhood memories and nervously laugh at the tons of private jokes.
I believed that those speeches - the ones that no one but the wedding couple can appreciate-should be given during the rehearsal dinner - but no. Everyone is privy to them, regardless of how meaningless it is or how much they have been inconvenienced by the special day already. A Canadian rehearsal dinner is just that - a dinner. I was really disappointed when Roger and I had our rehearsal dinner, but then I wasn't yet aware of the horribleness of Canadian weddings. A few years ago, R and I were at a wedding of a girl (who promptly divorced a year later) who had a wedding party of twenty. The only good going was the wine, and there was plenty of it. After the last wedding attendant gave her  speech, I was elated. "Yay! Maybe I can leave now!" But alas, no. Someone else got up to the podium clutching a sheaf of papers.
 I have to note that after drinking about a bottle of wine, you forget that you're not whispering. My wail of : "Oh, for the love of all that's holy! Have mercy!" was heard across the room and to this day I am a persona non grata in that family, to the point that when they see us out in public, I am invisible.
I am writing this because of the plethora of invites (I know. You'd think they would have gotten the message by now.) and "save the dates" that have been pouring in to our mailbox. The events happen to be on the peak weekends of summer, and if you live anywhere up north, you know that those precious weekends are few and far between.  But, as Roger mopefully said, "It's better if you don't go - if your heart isn't in it." to which I heartily agree!
I do have some more wedding fodder coming up: after September I will be able to report on how awful or how great English weddings are. You'll get the full report, believe me.

The Girls Who Love Horses

Who are they - the girls who love horses?
Girls with dreams
Girls who work hard
Smart girls
Strong girls
"Girlie" girls
Big girls
Little girls
Old girls
Young girls
Girls who make their dreams come true
Girls who know who they are
Girls who have found their place in the world
Girls who say:
"Yes I will."
"You'll see."
"I'm not giving up."
Girls who love horses, love.

They love horses, and the horses love them.
2009 by Rosemary McEwin

Word of the year: dignity.

Writing exercise. Prompt:" All I know is that one minute he’s standing there talking about his favourite merlot, the next he’s on the floor in a pool of blood.”

(Ed. note: This was also inspired by a former boss, Chip Maxwell, a professional photographer in Tmapa, Florida. He was such a bad boss that we employees would sit around and fantasize about killing him.)
I had strolled into the office early, specifically for the purpose of re-grouping before the start of the week. I had spent the weekend in Miami with friends and needed some time to re-adjust to my regular worker-bee life.
I had my newspaper open, my computer was booting up and I was taking that first gratifying sip of a really good -and large- cup of coffee when I heard voices in the corridor outside. It wasn't unusual for some staff to come in early as I had. I didn't pay any attention to their conversation as I scanned the newspapers and the day's agendas at my desk.
The lights went on in the office across from mine, and that did get my attention. The office belonged to Denny Regalo, and it was unusual for him to be in the office early, and on a Monday to boot. As a field rep, he had the luxury of a flexible schedule.
My curiosity was further peaked by the arrival of another field rep, Andrea, and the regional manager, Larry Campbell. Their conversation began as a low buzz, then I heard Andrea’s voice, a thin tinny wail as she cried, “All I know is that one minute he was standing there talking about his favourite Merlot, the next minute he’s lying on the floor in a pool of blood.”
I got out of my seat and crossed the corridor to Denny’s office. They seemed surprised to see me, then Denny said, “Oh, there you. Good. You better sit down. I’ve got some bad news.”
I sat down, completely bewildered and intensely curious. “What the hell happened?” I asked looking from one to the other. In turn they exchanged meaningful glances with each other before Larry, taking a seat on the corner of the desk, began to speak.
“It’s Chip,” he said quietly.
“What about him?” I asked sharply. Chip was the branch manager, a micromanager, a task master and sometimes, a bully.
They looked around to each other again.
“Would you please tell me? I was away all weekend.” I said impatiently.
“I know, “ Larry said,” You missed Chip’s party Saturday night. He was really pissed about that.”
“This isn’t about that, is it?" I asked anxiously. Chip liked to show off his palatial home. It wasn’t the best corporate move to decline an invitation to one of his parties.
“No,” Larry said finally. Taking a deep breath, he went on.
 "Chip’s dead.”
I said all the usual “No ways” and “oh, my Gods” before Andrea, now convulsed in sobs, was able to regain hr composure and tell me what had happened.
“Well,” she said, waving carefully manicured hands in front of her to ward off more tears. “It was one of Chip’s regular parties, with him talking and bragging like he does - did.. He was talking about wine.”
“Which is ironic since he serves it by the thimbleful from the kitchen,” Denny muttered. “You’d think he’d at least lay out a little more wine.”
“Denny, please,” Andrea pleaded, tears welling up again in her eyes.
She bravely resumed her story through her tears.
“Well, he was standing there in front of that big window in his living room - I mean, the drawing room, and like I said, like I told the police, all I know is that one minute he’s standing there talking about his favourite merlot, the next he’s on the floor in a pool of blood.” Andrea collapsed again in tears.
“We were all covered with splatter,” Denny said. “I must have taken twenty showers trying to get rid of the smell of blood.”
I couldn’t say anything for a while.
“Holy shit,” I finally muttered, and repeated, “What the hell happened?”
Andrea gave Larry a pleading look and he answered.
“The best they can say that it was an intentional hit, with a silencer, from a close distance.”
“So the guy who wasted him was just outside the window,” Denny offered. “we spent hours with LAPD. And as a head‘s up, I wouldn‘t be surprised if they get in touch with you. They‘re trying to rule out suspects.”
"Suspects!” I shrieked. “I‘m a suspect?”
“Relax,” Denny said easily. “There's not a soul at this branch who wouldn’t be a suspect, except for the fact that no one here can afford the hit fee.”
“Is that the only thing standing between us and murder? Not being able to afford the hit fee?” Andrea cried.
We all exchanged guilty looks, then self-consciously looked away.
After a moment, Larry spoke again.
“Well, corporate told me to call a meeting with regional management this morning and straighten this out.
“In the meantime, I guess it’s business as usual,” he added brightly. “You guys have a great day.”

Writing exercise: How I quit a bad job

(This was inspired by my brief employment history with Bill the accountant in Gainesville. He's a true son of a bitch and is probably in some minimum security federal prison for fraud or tax evasion by now.)

The sick feeling started each evening at around eight. The euphoria I felt upon pulling into the driveway each evening was short-lived. By the time I start pulling my clothes together for the next day, my stomach began churning with dread.
On that day my boss's words were impossible to forget. I had stood across from him at his desk and took the barrage. He ended with a patronizing: "We'll just agree to part ways" and asked me to stay on for two reasons: In the early days of computer literacy, I was the only staff member who could operate the office computer. I was in the middle  of putting together a detailed financial statement for an important new client. It was crucial that I stay on until the project was finished. And, because no one else in the office could use the computer, I was asked to stay on until a replacement could be trained.
Sitting at a busy intersection the next morning, I could see the top of the four-story office building where I worked. I gripped the wheel and tried to quell my stomach with some deep breaths. I tried to look on the bright side: My commitment couldn't be longer than two weeks at the most, and  I'd been promised time to look for another job.
I missed the green light by about ten cars. The office building loomed ahead of me, looking more like my prison for the day than a place of business.
I thought about the deal I struck with my boss: the balding, paunchy baby-faced boomer with carefully gelled hair.I thought about other promises he had made and abandoned during my tenure at the office. I thought about the abuse flung at the staff, even in front of clients.When confronted, he would laugh nervously and accuse us of not having a sense of humor, as anyone could have seen that the insults were just innocent teasing.
My grip tightened on the steering wheel when the light turned green again. I thought about the commitment I had made and the urgency of having the pending financial report completed.
I pulled into the turn lane for the office parking lot, but what caught my eye was the road sign ahead that read :"Gulf Beaches Next Right". I was immediately tempted to bail, and break my promise. Leave in the lurch my co-workers and risk a poor reference.
Smiling smugly, I shrugged and thought, "Oh, well......"
I drove right past the office building waving gaily at the unseen minions cloistered inside, and made the next right to the beach, The bastard wouldn't have given me a good reference anyway.