History Buffed

It happens that I currently live in an area that is rich in Civil War history. Sadly, in spite of working for several years in various capacities with the local museum, it still has taken me a few years (okay, closer to 10) to fully appreciate this.

My new respect for Clarksville’s history is due to a couple factors. First, we are approaching the 150th Anniversary of the American Civil War. Second, one of my bosses is involved with the local Civil War Sesquicentennial Commission. Third, the company I work for is part of the team developing exhibit content for the Fort Defiance Interpretive Center, and I was fortunate enough to be assigned the project.

I have dabbled in history before – American history in college because I had to, medieval European history because I could. The medieval European history teacher was pretty much what I expected – a relatively middle-aged man with a collection of tweed jackets with suede elbow patches (someone please explain professorial fashion to me!!). He didn’t enunciate well, tended to lecture facing the chalkboard he was scrawling notes on, and I referred to him (in my head anyway) as “Old Mush Mouth.” I remember that Reinhard was a scholar in Charlemagne’s court (because I wrote a paper about it) and that the Battle of Hastings was in 1066. Once upon a time in Massachusetts, when the phone company lady recited a list of telephone numbers I could choose from, I shrieked “1066, Battle of Hastings, I want that one!” That is pretty much all I remember about medieval European history.

American History I was a different story, because Ed Thomas at Fitchburg State was passionate about history, which was evident in his lectures. Maybe Old Mush Mouth was passionate once, too, before years of disinterested students wore him down, but it was hard to imagine. Thomas, on the other hand, made history interesting with nuggets of useful information like why dry cereal was invented, and who decided to refer to the Puritans as “Puritans.” If he had not taken Sabbatical the semester I could have enrolled in American History II as an elective, I am pretty sure I would have taken that class and changed my major to history. As it was, I was afraid another instructor would be such a disappointment compared to Dr. Thomas that I didn't continue. Years later, I don’t even remember much of the actual history, but I remember that the class was fun and I looked forward to being there.

Many, many moons later, I participated in a Passport in Time archeology dig at the site of the general store near one of the furnaces at Land Between the Lakes (on the Tennessee-Kentucky border). That was some serious physical work, and one of the most fun two weeks I can recall from my adult life. If it wasn’t for a blasted full-time job with minimal time off, I would be chasing Passport in Time projects all over the country.

And now, I am working on the interpretive center project and diving head first into history in the form of a 14 page (and growing) outline of content for the exhibit, and review of photos and artifacts for potential use. There is also a video script to be written as part of the package. And it is fun. For me anyway. Others might find it as dreadful and punishing as I find some of the other projects I've been assigned over the years.

In recent weeks, I got to read letters to a Clarksville woman that were written by her gentleman friends in the field during the war. Yes, there was more than one dude calling her “sweetheart” and “love.” And apparently, she kept her letters like trophies. (Not that I can talk, I still have the first love letter I ever received.) There are diary entries by a 16 year old Clarksville girl that are ocassionally downright hysterical with gossip, jokes, and moody adolescent rants. It feels like snooping reading this stuff. I wish this project wasn’t on such a short timeframe so I could relax and savor some of the material.

After learning that my home is located not too far from the site of a former Civil War training camp, I am itching to explore the woods of my back yard in search of a button or some other historic item. I imagine marking off a grid like we did at LBL and digging down an inch at a time, sifting dirt through a screen and pulling out fragments of interesting (to me anyway) daily stuff. Wielding the shovel and sifting the dirt was one of the most educational and strenuous upper body workouts I have ever done. In case you were wondering.

Almost daily, when I drive through the subdivision that I now know sits on the site of a former training camp, I wonder how many (if any) of the inhabitants know what the spot once was, and if they would even care if they did know. I wonder what treasures might be sitting below the foundations or in the yards.

One of the things that attracted an ex and me to each other was our shared feeling that we’d “been born 100 years too late” – that we belonged in another era; that we are displaced in this time and space. I almost wish I could call him and tell him about this project at work, because he would find it interesting, and maybe, just for one brief shining moment, I could feel like he was proud of me for something. But calling him would be so weird, as we haven’t seen or talked to each other in a couple years. Which, historically,  isn't that much different from when we were married.

What Stress?

Sometimes, people who are under a lot of stress think that they are handling it well, and think that they appear all calm and normal on the façade. Sometimes stressed-out people don’t even realize they ARE stressed until someone else points out that they seem different from their usual demander – maybe quieter, maybe louder, or more snappish, or angry, or sullen, or locked into a permanent scowl.

Other people (or the same person at a different time) are fully aware they are stressed. They wave the stress flag, stomp around, and let everyone in a five mile radius (or greater) know that they are stressed. Kind of a “Yup, I’m stressed, I know it and I am not even going to try and hide it” theatrical production of Broadway caliber.

I have partied in both of these camps.

Many moons ago, while deep in the cesspool of a divorce, I thought I was holding myself and my situation together pretty well. I was (I thought) keeping my personal life out of the office. Sure, I would burst into tears on the way to and/or from work most days. Yeah, my neck and back hurt all the time. There was the teeth grinding and the insomnia and the lovely accompanying dark under-eye circles and the weight loss. But a little concealer cream, a touch up of the tear-smeared mascara, a tinier suit and pair of jeans charged to the already overburdened credit card and I was fine. Right? Yeah, right.

There was the argument with my doctor about being stressed when she wanted to write me a prescription for something I didn’t want to take. When a co-worker proclaimed me “the angriest person [she] ever met,” I wrote it off to her being a stuck-up bitch. When another member of the gym I belonged to said I was “always so intense” I figured he was probably just a wuss.

In retrospect, I finally recognized that I was a walking a disaster. It took a while. Months. Years even.

I lived in one city, worked a full-time corporate finance job in another city 45 minutes away, worked a part-time job waiting tables at a ski lodge between the two, attended grad school one night a week in a city 40 miles in yet another direction, took a photography class one night a week, and somehow had a semblance of a social life. Any tiny spaces in my life were filled with the noise of television or music. I did this for several years. Looking back, I am shocked my head didn’t explode, and more shocked I somehow had friends who actually wanted to spend time with me. Or maybe they were just too afraid to say ‘no.’

I did a similar routine after another breakup. I had finished grad school by then, so that time, I worked 50 hours a week at my job, took random classes like acting, inline skating, portrait photography, ballet, flamenco dancing and kickboxing. I trained for a 250 mile bike ride. I drank lots of coffee and Diet Coke to fight off the fatigue from not sleeping. Even though I burst into tears a lot, I thought I seemed like I was okay. I finally snapped out of it.

And here I am again. Based on my long history in (mis)handling stress, and the current manner in which I have deliberately overcrowded my life, it is brilliantly obvious that I am stressed. All the markers are there. The tightly-packed activity schedule. The spontaneous tears. The short fuse. The sullenness. The screwy appetite. The anger. The difference this time is that I am not even trying to hide it. In fact, about the only thing missing is a neon sign over my head flashing the message “stressed out bitch here” with an arrow pointing to me.

If you have any doubt about this (and I am sure there may be one or two doubters sporting the rose-colored glasses out there) I invite you to ask the office production manager how our morning was. But first, in my own defense, I am compelled to open my confession by saying that I had not yet had sufficient coffee intake. My caffeine-addicted brethren and sisters will understand. That part anyway.

In any event, she asked me a question first thing this morning, and I nearly tore her head off. Not in a direct personal attack against her kind of way, more in the indirect “I’m so aggravated with everything and you happen to be here in front of me so you are stuck with it” kind of way. Right before declaring (i.e., launching into a dramatic tirade) how stressed I am. You know, in case she couldn’t tell, based on my slightly vocal whining about it all week. Okay, maybe louder than "slightly vocal whining" and probably more like all year.

On the bright side (if there is one), at least I am not in denial. Acceptance is the first step to healing, is it not?

Corporate Silencer

It appears I have silenced myself. I used to write all the time, but now, the only writing I do seems to be Facebook status updates and the occasional text messages to friends. It’s like I have nothing to say lately, or I am too busy editing myself and worrying about who my words will offend to manage to say anything . (Trust me, it’s happened, even with the minimal writing I’ve been doing.) Or maybe I just use up all my words on the status updates and text messages.

The writing at work doesn’t really count. There are parameters and word counts and assigned topics and the output has to go through multiple levels of client approval. That part is fine. I actually like the boundaries and the challenge of word counts. I love a deadline. During content approval, my clients generally make only minimal changes to the content, usually based on compliance issues. I breathe a sigh of relief that the copy is done and approved and ready to go to graphics and the production timeline is being met.

And that is precisely when, depending upon which of the three bosses the project is with, things can go ridiculously wrong. I love working with Boss 2 of 3. We make things happen. He actually tells me I am a great writer. He trusts me to get things done and on time, respects what I do, and gives me the latitude to do it. The end result is something of which we can be proud, and together we have worked on a several video scripts, websites and the exhibit content and writing for a historical interpretive center. Sadly, I don't get to work nearly enough with Boss 2. Boss 3 of 3 is almost as easy to work with, but I don’t work him very much. However, Boss 1 of 3, the partner to whom I directly report, is another story.

Boss 1 of 3 tends to become interested in projects about five minutes after the client has approved them. When he asks to see the final copy draft for project such and such, the timeline is doomed and my heart sinks. The manuscript is delivered. A meeting is scheduled. After several reschedulings on the company calendar, (four being the average) the meeting eventually happens. The production timeline begins to slip from “on-time” to “crunch-time.” That’s about when Boss 1 decides to rewrite things. His edits start with “I don’t want to micromanage this, but…” followed by a litany of how this should say that and that should say this, but I am free to wordsmith it. The smartest (and fastest) thing to do at that point is to rewrite the piece to whatever he just said and redeliver it to him. The fun part is when I get to call the client and tell them that the content they just approved has been redone and they need to look at it again. And quickly, because now the project is behind schedule.

And usually, this is still not enough. Approximately 75 percent of the time, Boss 1 rewrites it again – back to the original version I wrote, which was based on his first set of instructions. But he got to pee on the bush and mark his territory. I got to jump though his hoops (the fitness portion of the program), feel my frustration rise (the test of patience), and watch a project slip behind schedule (let the tap dancing begin!).

Project after project. Year after year. The confidence is drained. Self-questioning is high. I take it back. The writing at work not only counts, it is likely the problem. The urge to leave for lunch one day and just never return is constant. Perhaps my next major piece of writing (If I can muster up the energy) should be a tutorial on how to be a soul-crushing, demeaning boss. I am qualified for this assignment, with nearly five years of direct experience. Of course, what is really needed is the survival guide to keeping sanity intact while maneuvering the bull.

Election Day

It’s finally here. Election Day! I’ve been waiting for this day for weeks. It feels bigger than my birthday, Halloween, or any of the six holidays recognized with a paid day off at my job. (I know ... six!) I have been on tenterhooks waiting for this day. No, I am not running for office. No, I am not campaigning for anyone who is running for office. I am just ready for the campaigns to stop. Seriously.

Over the past few weeks, one mayoral candidate’s recorded message system has called me more often than all the members of my family and friends combined. Or maybe it just feels like that because after the first time hearing from a candidate I find the calls annoying. The same candidate also sent me several full-color postcards featuring him smiling, always in a polo shirt. I appreciate the love and attention. Really, I do. But I have tired of looking at your face, oh candidate for mayor. The same face that stares at me from a vinyl poster at every major intersection in town. It’s beginning to feel a little like stalking. But you do win points for visibility.

Another mayoral candidate evidently decided to save money on mailings and sent her three poster-sized mailers addressed jointly to me and my former housemate. Really? I am an individual voter. I know mailers are expensive, I work in marketing. But the jointly addressed mail – with his name listed first, thanks to the magic of alphabetization – made me feel trivialized. Idea: make the photos of your fabulous self a little smaller, maybe use 2 instead of 20, reduce the size of the mailing piece, and send one to each voter individually.

As for the other five contenders for mayor … they have spared me mailings and calls. One dude has a zeppelin shaped balloon floating over College Street and is going to fight for me. The sign on his truck says so. Too bad about the mailings though, as I saved all campaign mail received in a semi-neat pile, and read it immediately before heading to the polls. Promises. Lies. Finger pointing. As juicy as a soap opera script.

On the state side of things, the Republicans campaigned hard for someone from the other camp to NOT be elected. I received three postcards from the incumbent’s campaign, touting his “four-year record of service” … and four much larger mailers of the negative variety illustrating previous “unpaid cell phone bills (wow. $600 worth!?!), wasteful government spending, and higher taxes on small businesses.” Hmmm….I work for one of those small businesses, and I think the partners are plenty taxed already. More taxes for them means no raises for us little folks and/or vacated positions not filled so the rest of us get to work more for the same paycheck.

While the campaign season was aggravating, the act of voting was an almost painless event. My ward’s voting place was well marked from the street -- big “Vote Here” signs at the entry to the parking lot. Unfortunately, they neglected to mark the building entrances. People were wandering around the building, trying various doors. The logical choice -- the front door -- had a note reading “Please use side door.” Sure. It’s a four sided building, where do I begin? The correct side door featured a weathered piece of paper with a note in faded orange highlighter telling “Teachers” to do something.  A nice “Vote Here” sign on the entry door would have spared a lot of perimeter wandering.

Once inside, I completed my “voter application” and was directed to “the D section” at another table. And there I stood, signature ID and application in hand. And stood. And stood some more, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. The volunteer tending the “D-G” section was very, very busy. She was busy chatting with the volunteer lady next to her. I cleared my throat a little -- I was trying hard to be nice and remember that these are volunteers working. And I use the term ‘working’ loosely. They are also seemingly people with plenty of time on their hands and no place else to be. I, however, was supposed to be at work. I was a bit curious as to how long this might go on, but finally, a lady two chairs down the table caught my lady’s eye (the good one, without the cataract) and said “Um, Mary, that lady is ready.” Thank you helpful lady tending another section of the alphabet. And Mary proceeded to try to find my name in her listing that seemed to be printed in a rather small size, even for younger, unclouded eyes. A check mark, a signature, and I was directed to “the lady in the purple shirt” for my civic act of voting.

A quick run-through of the operation of the machine. No booth. No curtain. No separation from the rest of the room. Disappointing. There went my plan to photograph the ballot with my cell phone. Just for kicks, you know. I reviewed the surprisingly lengthy list of names running for Governor. I had heard of a couple, but the rest? No idea. There were 16 names on there. I swear I am not making this up. A Republican, a Democrat, plus 14 Independent Candidates. There were seven people running for mayor. Evidently, appearing on an election ballot must have been on a few people’s bucket list.

On my way out, I saw several people wandering around the building, zombie -like (how trendy!). I directed the ones nearest me to the proper entry door. And off I went, surprisingly arriving at work not much later than usual.

After today, the mailbox will feel emptier. My cell phone will vibrate less. I will have fewer voice mail messages. And instead of tuning out the political ads on TV, I can transfer that energy to trying to ignore the Christmas shopping ads. All part of the cycle of life.

Gooden Bad

Life, mine anyway, is a mixed bag. It feels like anything good is counterbalanced with something equal or greater than in the not good area. At best, the net effect is neutral. Mostly, it’s like a precarious balance of the see-saw that sometimes feels a lot like the time my brother decided to bail from the see-saw when I was poised at the highest point, and I came crashing down on my back, knocked windless on the playground. Or the time at Lunenburg Town Beach when I fell off the see-saw and fainted in the sand. Or maybe I fainted first. Evidently, I have a history of problems with balance.

A few weeks ago there was a pretty typical example.

In a rare event, one remarkable morning, I woke up both on time and feeling rested. -- events that rarely coincide. It didn’t, however, mean that my night’s sleep was a blessed, uninterrupted event. It featured a 10 pm bedtime followed by the usual “wake-up-after-exactly-two hours” rousing where I marvel at how great the sleep was and wonder if it is 6 am already. A squinty-eyed check of the clock indicates the epic rest was merely a two hour nap. Sleeping commences, one or two hours passes and the cycle of awakenings continues, sometimes prompted by Moose jumping at the side of the bed like a circus performer to announce his need to be outside and conduct some business. To his credit, Moose has become adept at notifying me of his late-night bladder needs, which might be easier to appreciate if the little guy would go outside before bed. Sadly, he is as stubborn as I am.

Back to that day. Awoke feeling good, and the feeling continued in spite of the incessant meowing of the cat who never shuts up and refuses to understand when there is no more lactose-free milk in the place and he is not getting the half-and-half that makes him sick no matter how long he sits in front of the refrigerator wailing. Already been there and cleaned up the cat sick. Thankfully, Moose is as quiet as Merriwether is vocal.

Early computer work indicated bills are current. Calendar check served a reminder that October contains an extra pay period. Sweet sigh of relief that the month might have a longer than usual ramen-free stretch. Once again considered the possibility of flying home for Thanksgiving without having to add to the already hefty credit card debt. At least "Thank You Rewards" points to offset the interest rate, right?

Dress without incident – as in, no missing buttons, falling hems, torn seams, snagged tights or shoes falling apart. Dog fed and crated. Purse loaded with a fresh supply of gum and breakfast granola bars. Final post-departure Facebook check and a cheery post on a friend’s wall that “Life is good!” Head outside and take note of the remarkably beautiful fall day, only a few minutes late with an 8:15 expected arrival time at the office.

Traverse uneven brick walkway to the daily sound of the usually silent Moose barking his indignant cries of separation as soon as the door was locked. Load car with portfolio notebook, daily journal, two-ton purse (what is in that thing, anyway?), cell phone, derby gear bag and derby clothes bag. Assume the position in the driver’s seat. Insert key and turn. Click. Scratchy click. Dashboard lights illuminated. All of them. Bell dinging that door is open. And nothing else. Barely a whimper from under the hood. Try again. Nothing.

Okay. Mind racing. Housemate? Moved out seven months ago. Neighbor who works on cars? Moved away last week. Other known neighbors? Yeah, not a one. So much for the great day. It was good, stress-free seven minutes. While it lasted.

Call the office to notify of automotive issue and ensuing tardiness, and the very level-headed production manager offers a couple suggestions before recruiting a coworker to come over and execute a jump start. While waiting, I call Midas to check on potential age of battery and if under warranty. Alert “Eddie” that the CRV will be rolling in soon with issues.
Jump start successful. Arrive at office, leave car running and run inside to drop derby gear and daily portfolio at desk before heading back out to Midas, two short blocks away. Leave car running while head in to speak to someone inside. One dude sending text messages in the “customer lounge” area which is now boasting ridiculously uncomfortable looking (new) red plastic Adirondack style chairs. Hmmm. Place has been painted since my last visit. A sign near the door to the shop proclaims “Vending Machines located in Shop Area,” not too far from another near the same door that states “Authorized Personnel Only.” I love the fuck you messages. Ha! We moved your machines, AND put them in an area where you are not allowed. Hey, enjoy our newly re-arranged, freshly painted, brutally uncomfortable lounge.

There plenty of time to take all this in, while pacing the lobby area waiting for help. An unseen man in the office answered the phone and embark on what seems to be a personal call. Perhaps I am such a lightweight that I did not trigger the door sensor when I slipped in like a paper doll. Look around, wondering what is the appropriate time to be ignored before barging into the office or the “Authorized Personnel Only” area. Finally, someone emerges from the shop and fetches Eddie, who is poised under a car on a lift, wielding a welder, surrounded in an impressive shower of sparks. Wished for a camera to capture that photo-worthy sight.

Walk up the hill back to the office. Clock in, restart computer, and head to the kitchenette for coffee. And there it is … a foil-covered plate on the “if it’s here it’s fair game for everyone” counter. Whatever is under that foil has got to better than the dry granola bar on my morning menu. And whaddaya know – chocolate cake with chocolate icing. An instant improvement. A great thing to offset the crappy thing that offset the good thing.

When Eddie called with an estimate, the damage for a new 60-month battery plus the regular oil change that was a bit late was $175 plus tax. Hmmm. Roughly one-half the cost of the airfare seen  merely a day earlier when the new Southwest rates came out. Oh, and Eddie says I need new tires. Not necessarily that minute, but definitely before the winter ice. Perfect. Really.

After work, rushed home to let Moose out and get ready for derby practice. Halfway there, realize my derby gear bag was still under my desk at work.

Two days later, the Honda is at the dealer for a check of the door locks that no longer function with the remote. Received the panicked message from the service manager that “the vehicle is on the lift ... please call right away.” Apparently, my brakes were worn down to tissue paper thinness. And that was gonna get me for $577, including the $49 to check out the "door actuator" and the $225 for the part. See-saw down. Bam! And I sat at my desk and cried. Then I boldly marched into the kitchenette and cried some more. Then I swore a bunch., but mostly under my breath. Then I tried to dedicate my overly-stressed self to doing some work. Right.

Entertaining Pain

The other day, I was in the car with one of my three bosses. Boss 2 of 3 was driving us back to the office after a client meeting. We usually talk about a crazy-ass variety of subjects while in the car – traffic, art, client projects, weather, you name it. We sometimes touch upon my love-hate (mostly hate) relationship with Clarksville. In this car chat, I mentioned that I had recently guided an out-of-town friend on a quick tour of parts of Clarksville, during which my friend pointed out that I seem to be fonder of the city than I claim. I guess nine years here have worn me down and made me comfortably numb. Or my laziness has forced me to stop resisting the city’s um, “charms.”

Anyway … Boss 2 agreed I sometimes exhibit a certain attachment to the ‘Ville, and thanks to various local client projects and assorted activities, possess a more intimate knowledge of the city “than the average bear.”

I cannot explain the perceived attachment and fondness, except that maybe it has to do with familiarity breeding comfort (or at least an absence of contempt) – like pair of ratty, smelly, yet comfortable slippers. As for the activities – jewelry making, stained glass, photography club, artist co-op, belly dance troupe, roller derby team – there is a logical explanation for all of that (beyond my limited attention span and morbid fear of boredom). With no kids or husband (or even a real boyfriend), girlfriends who are busy being in love, and a job that is trapped at the end of a cul-de-sac until somebody retires or dies (and possibly not even then), I cram my schedule with busy for a very deliberate purpose. Busy passes the time. Busy prevents thinking and feeling and therefore wards off insanity. It’s a distraction from the realities of being 1,200 miles from family, a disappearing retirement portfolio, and a mere 10 days of vacation per year. Busy gets me out of the house and, through clever and creative use of smoke, mirrors and the occasional scented candle, creates the illusion of a full, satisfying life. And most importantly, busy makes me tired. I figured out long ago that being tired is socially acceptable while being depressed is not. Well, except for country songwriters. Consequently, not being cut of the songwriter's cloth, I cram a bunch of crap into my life so I don’t have time to think about being depressed. And it gives me a story.

Stay with me and think about it – when you ask someone how they are and the answer is “Happy!” – what else is there to say? There is no conflict. The story is over before it began. Half the time, the person cannot even articulate why they are happy. Maybe it’s just my social circle, but I’m not kidding, I can’t think of a faster way to end a conversation than to say (or hear),“Everything is great, I’m happy!” Boom. Done. (Remember this and thank me later if you ever need to get away from someone you don’t really feel like talking with.)

On the other hand, if someone is pissed off, there is almost always a great story to go with that. Rude salesclerk / waiter / customer / idiot driver in traffic … kid’s shenanigans … visiting the post office or DMV … weather related events. The conversation can go for hours!

And when the answer is “depressed,” is it not your instinct to flee? Nobody wants to hear that shit unless they are being paid by the 50-minute hour, and possibly not even then. At best, the targeted listener suddenly remembers something critically important that must be tended to yesterday. At worst, the depressed subject (i.e. me) is subjected to a lecture about the impossibility of being attractive, smart, having a job, “having it all,” blah blah blah, AND being depressed – as if being attractive and being depressed are mutually exclusive events. As if educated, employed people have no right to be anything less than thrilled with all aspects of life, no matter how screwy it is. It seems to imply that only hideous, stupid people have a right to feel anything less than happy – if they can actually fit it in with the vitriolic jealousy and anger they must be feeling towards the attractive, intelligent (and therefore happy as dictated by the laws of the Universe) set.

Being tired, however, seems to be completely, socially acceptable. Everyone is tired. People relate to tired. Tired has a story or two or three or ten. People can trade war stories about tired all day. Tired is a familiar feeling cultivated since the dawn of time (which in my case, coincides with Grad School) and can be worked around with carefully timed, liberal doses of coffee. So, my life is structured so I am generally too busy and/or tired to realize I’m depressed. Conversely, I’m also usually too busy and/or tired to realize when I’m happy.

In any event, Boss 2 thought the explanation of my busy life was hilarious. He said so, and complimented me on my comic storytelling ability. He commended my dry Yankee wit and pointed observations on life. He even found it amusing when I looked at him and said with what I thought was complete earnestness, “Yeah, I’m not kidding.” He marveled at how I think the stuff up – except I don’t, it’s just my life. If only I could live some riveting material suitable for ad copy we’d be all set!

Perhaps it is fortunate that my angst sometimes entertains others. I pour my heart out and they tell me it’s funny. I say my dog eats $3 a can prescription dog food and as a result, I am living on 19 cent a brick ramen, and they laugh like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard. Maybe I should invite them over for dinner. It mystifies the hell out of me when my pain provides chuckles. If I could figure out how to turn that into cash, I’d be all set.

Cheap Entertainment

Sometimes funny stuff just lands in my lap like the crumbs of my Oat ‘n Honey granola breakfast bars. The humor of the thing that amuses me on any given day might be readily apparent, or it may be built upon a foundation of random things that seemed aggravating yesterday or some number of days earlier, but with the advantage of time, space and perspective, are now funny. Hysterical, even. Or maybe I just have a warped sense of humor.

These week’s twisted entertainment involves my email account and encounters with strangers.

Since the last century (man, it sounds oddly entertaining and archaic to say that) I have had an email account that uses my first initial and family name. It made sense when I opened it – it represented my name, and the use of just a first initial instead of my whole first name provided a (perhaps false) level of security and perhaps even a sheer curtain of cyber anonymity. Well, except for the part that has my display name as my full name.

When I got married, I kept that email account out of a potentially misguided notion that I was sparing people the trouble of updating their address books and a fear that my friends back home wouldn’t recognize my emails if they were from an address bearing the last name of the man I married whom most of them had never met. The real truth however, is rooted in my laziness. The idea of creating a new account, transferring my contacts and rerouting all the newsletter subscriptions and retailer sales announcement emails felt like too much work. It would cut into my obsession of the time – Spider Solitaire – which had kept me company into the wee hours of the morning for at least 18 lonely months in my spacious Worcester apartment, and entertained me during my three month winter stint in Seoul when I was on "my honeymoon" and new hubby had to go to work every day. Hey, it beat excessive drinking, overeating, spending, or any of the other vices/habits I could have indulged in.

In the decade or so of having this email address, it has received some strange, interesting and even annoying email. There are the sporadic, generic messages greeting “Test” or “Tracy” in the subject line. Because my friends actually know my name, those are deleted without hesitation.

In 2004, a letter addressed to “Reverend Simonds” arrived, seeking a background reference on an applicant for a social work job. The sender was contacting the Reverend for additional information as the applicant had said the separation of employment was “not amicable.” I wrote back to the gentleman and explained I am not Reverend Simonds and would not be able to help him with his questions.

For a chunk of the school year in 2008, I was subjected to a barrage of emails from the Great Oaks Elementary School announcing every PTA meeting, fundraiser, school lunch menu and report card delivery date. I tried to unsubscribe from this one due to the volume of messages -- this school likes to pump out information -- but there was no unsubscribe feature. I managed to learn that email addresses for the list had been collected from student information forms. There was a phone number on the messages, but it lacked an area code, so I couldn’t call without doing some research. I replied to one of the messages and asked to be removed from the list, but it did nothing to stem the flow. Fortunately, when the school year ended, so did the messages. There was probably some confused, out-of-touch parent of a Great Oaks Elementary School student wondering why they never heard a peep from the school.

In 2009, I received a series of messages from a web hosting site concerning the creation of the 4kiddos website, and a series of reminders to finish creating and activate the website. Finally, a notice arrived that the site was being cancelled due to inactivity. Hallelujah. I have enough legitimate projects of my own that I am ignoring without some stranger’s website hanging over my head.

The most recent situation, however, may be the ultimate in misdirected mail. Monday morning, while sifting through several days’ worth of unread emails numbering in the hundreds (I am very popular on the newsletter and newspaper subscription lists, if nowhere else), I came upon three strange surprises delivered in the space of 24 hours. The most benign was a copy of a purchase order for $1,594 in lighting supplies from Halco Lighting Technologies. I might write to the company and tell them of the mistake. Or not. It depends. I have other writing to do, and other tasks to ignore.

The second, more surprising delivery was a series of messages from the “Ashley Madi*** Agency.” I know the name from their recent late night TV commercials – the agency’s tag line is “Life is short. Have an Affair.” There was welcome message -- not to me (because, although single, I am not (yet) (that) desperate and am currently solidly opposed to affairs), but to “Todd 1314.” Hmmmm. There was also a message containing the account login information for Todd1314 and another message announcing the receipt of an email from “StrangeEyes.” Yes, I opened them. All of them. Evidently, “Todd 1314” decided to open a guest membership on Saturday. He hasn’t made the full commitment to his extracurricular love life in the form of the $249 payment to enjoy the “Affair Guarantee” provided by the lovely folks at Ashley Madi***, so we still can’t actually read the email from “StrangeEyes.” Cheapskate wants a freebie. Or he’s afraid someone will see the transaction on his credit card.

Here is what I learned about Todd 1314: He is 5’10” and weighs 290 lbs. He lists himself as “attached male seeking females” and seeks “something short term” within 10 miles of his Indiana address. All this is in his profile information (it's about ALL that is in his profile, actually). Which I read. Hey, it’s in MY email address inbox. Am I wrong? Really, the dude needs to learn his own email address. I would write and tell him so, but he seems to think he’s me in cyber.

Todd was a very busy man on Saturday and invested some quality time on the computer. Besides enrolling with the affair matchmaking agency, he also took the time to confuse his email address with mine and sign up for Penthouse–dot–com. This I know from the email from sender "Penthouse.com"  providing the login password in the subject line. Busy, busy, Todd1314.

I’m sad for Todd. Beyond the initial email notice of a message from StrangeEyes, probably planted by an autoresponder to inspire the payment of the membership fee, he has not received any other responses to his posting which bears the captivating headline “Hello,” no photos, and the most meager description (caucasian, age 37). Come on Todd, if you are serious about cheating on your partner to whom you say you are "attached," post a photo so the cheating-hearted ladies can at least have a peak at what you are offering. Because dude, your scant physical description and completely boring profile are not helping your cause. If Todd1314 is online looking for an ego boost, he is going to be sorely disappointed. Maybe I should help the boy out with a clever, witty, custom-crafted profile? I love writing ...