Continuing Education

In the personally stressful summer of 2008, I retreated to the sanctuary of school in the way that other people seek solace in work or alcohol or food or hobbies. On a whim on a vacation day around Independence Day, I visited a junior college located within a mile of my house, expecting to leave with information about a paralegal program, which seemed like a low cost portal into the legal field with which I have mentally flirted on more than one occasion. After a couple hours that included an interview with an admissions counselor and a standardized test, instead of leaving the administration office for home, I found myself being escorted into a classroom, introduced to the instructor and pointed to an empty seat. Talk about a fast track. I didn't even have a notebook with me and had to get a pad of paper from my new academic adviser.

After one semester and a 4.0 GPA earned with a class in political science and another called "Strategies for Success,” I could finally take a class in my program -- an introduction to legal something or other, along with a class in a version of Microsoft Office used neither at work nor at home. The first night of the law class, I arrived with my $300 stack of text books and legal dictionaries. After a few minutes of class members sitting around chatting with each other, an administrator appeared and announced the instructor would be late. A movie was set up for us to watch -- not an academic movie about legal process -- a Hollywood action film where one character just happened to be a lawyer. When the instructor finally arrived roughly halfway through the three hour class period, he apologized to the students in the criminal justice program because only one section of the semester would pertain directly to them. Then he launched into a theatrical recitation of his resume of which he seemed quite proud. When the speechification of his grandeur was complete and his shoulder most certainly dislocated from patting himself on the back, he assigned us a chapter in our textbooks and when we weren’t reading fast enough, dismissed us for the night. Coupled with the information processing class that had us reading the textbook on our own for half the class then being dismissed early, I was not feeling much value for my new educational encumbrance in the form of Sallie Mae loan indebtedness.

The discovery that the paralegal program wasn't ABA approved rendered my desired future portable skill set essentially worthless beyond the county line. Unfortunately, I had not asked that specific question during my marathon  info session / enrollment / first class night a few months previous. Had I not been swept up in the excitement of the last day of the semester's enrollment period and had a minute to think about things, chances are very good I would never have enrolled.

When I met with an administrator to withdraw from the school the first week of my second term, she wrote down "personal reasons" on her very official withdrawal form. Those words were very different from my utterance of "The program is not ABA approved," but they were what I had to sign to be released from the school and cancel that term's student loan, so I wrote my name and was gone. Unfortunately, the school bookstore wouldn't take back my books as they had been removed from the plastic wrappers. Every time I see them on my bookshelf, they seem to taunt me. I am probably still paying for them on my Mastercard bill.

Recently, for a second time in my adult life, I considered law school. The first time I toyed with the idea, I was an undergraduate business major in search of programs that would make me seem more interesting. The same time I was researching law schools, I was also looking at casino dealer schools. It seemed a sure bet that either one of those paths would boost a non-existent love life.  As is often the case, however, the more I know of something, the less I like it. I quickly lost interest in the casino thing, and a couple practice tests with a Law School Admission Test preparation book were sufficient to to scare me off that educational avenue.

When Nashville’s Belmont University announced in July 2009 it was starting a law program, the legal fire was ignited again. The application was immediately downloaded and the fantasies of being a member of the first graduating law school class there kicked into production. Tuition costs were researched, along with those of other law schools for comparison and due diligence. An LSAT prep book arrived from Amazon right before a Christmas trip to Virginia and was shelved until the return.

Most of the law schools don't allow students to work during the first year or so, so law school would be a very expensive major life commitment that would require leaving my job while still needing to cover a mortgage and food, at least for a few years. The one school geared for working adults was also affordable, but not ABA approved, negating its value anyplace outside Middle Tennessee. After calculating the crushing burden of debt upon graduation even at the affordable school where I could still work, law school was looking pretty shaky. The final nail in the law school coffin was set when I could imagine myself as a law student, but not actually as a lawyer. The LSAT prep book was never used. It sits on the bookshelf joining the chorus of taunts from the paralegal program books and Black's Law Dictionary.

Life is full of learning opportunities. Because I still like legal stuff -- the concepts, the precedents, the arguing -- I have undertaken what I loosely refer to as my independent study program of law. Classes are held daily (including weekends!) at the CDE Lightband campus conveniently located on my living room sofa. My school is fondly referred to as the "CDE Channel 13 School of Law" although the network is technically branded “My TV 30.”

The faculty is well known around the country. Depending upon what time I arrive home for lunch from my job where I sometimes get to deal with the horror show of the new banking compliance regulations, my afternoon session is with either the gorgeous Judge Lynn Toler on "Divorce Court," or with Judge Alex Ferrer, aka "Judge Alex." The evening session is always taught by Judge Judith Sheindlin, (Judge Judy!!) which also features bonus material in English and comedy when she scolds litigants for their poor grammar or for trying to pull a fast one on her. I realize I'll never be qualified to practice law after this particular program of study, but the tuition fits my empty wallet, and it's fun to yell at the TV and the dumbass litigants who can't seem to grasp the concept of burden of proof and the value of documentation. 

Maybe I need to focus on finding a handsome lawyer to date. We could spend romantic nights debating case law and browsing legal texts. We could play Scrabble using only legal terms and I could write his legal briefs. It would be heaven. And it wouldn’t cost me $100,000.

Friday Night Follies

Friday evening after arriving home from work, feeding and walking the dogs and feeding myself a sumptuous repast of tortilla chips with melted cheese eaten under the steady “feed me” stares of Moose and Winston, after a full week of delays and procrastination (mostly procrastination), I finally set forth to mow the yard. Half of it didn’t really need it, but the other half was a combination of calf-high, willowy weedy grassy stuff punctuated with low spots of actual grass. A wardrobe change was necessary to maximize the physical area covered by fabric to prevent insect bites and the tee shirt with a robot image and the text “DESTROY ALL HUMANS” won the lottery by virtue of being the first shirt spotted after opening the drawer.  A quick spritz of insect repellant and I was ready to rock and mow.

The mowing methodology developed after a scientific process of trial, error and over thinking involves pushing the mower up the paved driveway to the top of the sloped yard near the street and starting the mower. It rarely (if ever) starts on any of the first five attempts, which is attributed (in rotation) to either my documented history of bad technology karma, my noodle-like arm strength, or the machine’s disturbing need for my tough love approach of swearing at it and the occasional kick to the side of the metal body surrounding the blade area. The mow pattern is across the yard, back and forth, each pass progressing one mower width down the slope. This fool learned the hard way that it’s easier to go across the hill than to try and shove the mower uphill and then try to hang onto it on the wild downhill pass. Science is fun.

For this particular mowing adventure, the machine was ceremoniously rolled out of the garage via the recently installed new garage door that actually functions. To mix things up, I attempted starting the mower while still in the lower part of the driveway. Options were contemplated -- save time and mow only the side jungle portion but risk awakening on Saturday to see the front had suddenly sprouted, or mow the whole yard properly as long as I was going to be out there dying in the heat and humidity anyway. I went for “proper,” but with a twist.  Like a military master, I surveyed the enemy territory and plotted maneuvers. My mower and I would attack on both fronts -- the jungle AND the desert.

After adding gas and multiple faulty attempts that nearly dislocated my shoulder when attempting to pull the cord (noodle strength!), the mower started. A few successful  narrow rows of jungle along the driveway (because full width passes in the jungle always clog up the blade), an arc around the four foot tall tree stump left by the tree company that took down the gigantic dying tree, and a tiptoe push up the rest of the driveway edge to the top of the yard launched the initiative. At its usual starting point the mower sputtered to a stop. Swearing at the temperamental mess of metal ensued, followed by generic, frantic mental pleas to the unnamed deity that ensures the successful completion of hard labor before dark descends.

The mower started again, and except for the part where the motor sounded weak and weird and on the verge of dying forevermore, it was reasonably fast going for several passes which even included crossing the driveway to the bit of land on the other side and a vague guess of where the property line lies. Maybe someday I’ll find out the border for sure. Or not.

At the surprisingly rapid pace, it seemed possible to break the current mowing speed record of 45 minutes. My old lawn company charged me $40 to cut the grass, so by not paying them, it’s like earning close to a dollar a minute paying myself to do it, which is way more than I’ve ever made at any real job and feels like a total win. And bonus -- such deep lines of economic thinking make it feel like busting ass for an MBA was actually worthwhile.

By angling the passes and crossing over the concrete walkway, the jungle section was also begun -- two feet of tough jungle, a long stretch of easy, nearly nothing; three feet of jungle, a long pass of easy. Interval mowing! To break up the straight back and forth, I took a pass downhill along the driveway edge, a couple across the bottom of the hill and back up the hill -- just for the physical challenge of it. As we all probably know by now, I do not always take the easy, predictable (dull) route. Some may argue I never take it.

The yard project (and entire plan for my fulfilling and exciting Friday night) was moving along nicely. Completion before total darkness seemed imminent. It was time to consider a reward for the accomplishment of hard labor coupled with a possible new speed record. Ice water? Cold beer? Carrot coins? Sadly, that was about all I had to offer myself.

Ultimately, victory celebration plans proved premature. With perhaps 20% of the yard left (or 80% done to view the positive), and without even a warning sputter, the mower stopped. I flipped it onto its side and removed the clumps of immobilizing grass at each end of the blade with the toe of my specially designated mowing sneakers, (the formerly designated gym sneakers). After righting the fine specimen of mowing machinery, my severest evil death-ray stare and muttering failed to resurrect it and yielded nothing more than a mocking puff of black smoke.

Another undercarriage investigation revealed no further paralyzing grass but did produce a generous flow of nasty dark liquid from the engine. I set it upright again, walked (or stomped, it’s purely a matter of interpretation) into the garage for a shop towel to mop up the wet mess. I ran through the mental archives of previous mower issues and remedies. Clumped grass had already been removed as a functional impediment. Once, the engine felt super hot on a hellishly scorching day but after letting it sit long enough for me to eat lunch it restarted. A couple times adding gas solved the problem. By process of elimination and speed/ease of cure, gas was added. Push the red button three times, pull the cord. The cord wouldn’t budge. Check the archives -- last time this problem was encountered it was grass clumps but that was already checked. A few more attempts failed and I conceded defeat. The machine beat the human, who rolled the stubborn piece of metal into the garage. Maybe Saturday the odds will be in my favor. Or maybe I have been destroyed.

Weird Wednesday

Short work weeks, like this Labor Day week, often feel screwy. There’s the confusing Tuesday that feels like Monday thing. The need to get five days worth of work done in four and the sudden appearance of Friday is met, not with joy, but with the panic of not having moved enough work off one’s workstation and onto someone else’s.

Then there are the added surprises, big and small -- like spending the long weekend not doing housework or laundry and realizing on Tuesday-Monday that you have no clean underwear that fits. Sadly, there is a drawer half full of undies that would still fit if you hadn’t spent the past 10.5 months not working out due to first healing a fractured leg, then babying it with its lingering nerve damage / numbness/ limited ankle mobility. The slower pace, somewhat hindered mobility, and newfound hobby of eating everything in sight have facilitated the recent acquisition of close to 15 pounds of fresh weight, quite possible some of the same flab newly shed by friends with more dietary discipline and a faster walking speed. 

On Wednesday of this week, as I was saying my morning goodbyes to the dogs (different than my lunchtime goodbyes) and taking my last sweeping glance at the place before leaving for work, I noticed a few signs of major laziness that needed remedying. There was a bag of trash set against the kitchen wall, waiting to be transported downstairs and eventually to the trash drop off place. The coffee table was cluttered with papers. Ditto for one of the kitchen counters. The couch pillows were heaped in the casual rearrangement preferred by the dogs. The table in the living room that sits against the wall was buried -- yes BURIED -- in plastic shopping bags. Two weeks earlier, I had decided to fuse layers of plastic to make fabric to construct a garment for a recycled fashion show in the Riverfest festival this weekend. First, I solicited bags from my coworkers, and boy did they respond. I spent several nights fusing three layers of plastic in a single sheet, many times over. Then one night drawing and cutting skirt pattern shapes and another fusing seams to connect six pattern pieces into a skirt. The rest of the raw material inventory (aka plastic shopping bags) sits on the table, sorted by size and color, atop several early fused layers of six sheets that are too thick and crunchy to use for clothing.

I never have company, there’s basically no chance in hell a man is going to show up to pick me up for a date, and after four months of the house being listed on the market with few people looking at it, it’s really hard to maintain the optimism and energy to make sure the place is ready for viewings every day. Like, practically impossible. There are days when I look back at the place and what I see as disarray and think, “Well, nobody’s been looking at it, I’m not going to be late for work just so I can take the trash to the basement / put away that sweater / pick up that dog hair,  etc.”

On Wednesday, I calculated the number of house viewings in the past four months (not that many), turned and waltzed out the door without dealing with any of the clutter. Yes, it was an actual waltz step in my mind, as I glided past multiple doggy poop bags (okay, a giant pile of them) tossed near the porch after returning from multiple walks with the fur babies that involve me transporting their poop in little black bags around the neighborhood. I traversed the brick walkway with the weeds growing between the bricks at a shocking rate. I surveyed the shaggy part of the lawn, uncut over the long weekend because I spent two hours trimming the hedges and low hanging tree branches so I could stop crouching under them with the mower and then was too hot, sweaty, hungry and tired to push the mower for the 45 minutes needed to tidy the lawn. Besides, only the half of the lawn with the fast growing scraggly grass needed a cut, the front section is some different kind of grass that doesn’t seem to actually grow. Instead of suffering heat exhaustion with additional yard effort, I had hit the shower and settled in for a full day Dr Who marathon on BBC America. And then it rained on and off over the next three days. Oops. Grass be growing now.

In any event, once at work on Wednesday, my 9:30 meeting started an hour late then ran twice as long as it was scheduled (typical, when they happen at all). It took a crazy turn when my coworker and I found ourselves suddenly reviewing a list of types of cattle as part of the work. Did you know there are over 800 breeds of cattle recognized worldwide? And that there are racing and fighting breeds? Yeah, me neither. RX3 might be my new favorite cattle breed name -- it sounds sleek, like a race car. And I'm sorry, but Jamaica Black, Jamaica Hope and Jamaica Red sound like types of pot.

When I returned to my desk and my cell phone, there were two messages from the real estate central showing center seeking approval to show the house from 1:00 to 2:00. My realtor and I had requested a one hour notice so that I could (theoretically -- if possible) get home and take the dogs out of the house. The scheduling folks had been waiting 1.5 hours for my response, and the showing time requested was now a mere 20 minutes from my hearing the message. I was just about to head to lunch at home anyway, but talk about panic. I asked for a 15 minute delay and sped across town. I grabbed the trash bag from the kitchen, loaded it with the poop bags from the porch and brought it down to the car. I neatened the stack of magazines and mail on the coffee table and kitchen counter and remade the bed destroyed daily by Winston and his luxuriating under the covers, opened the blinds, leashed up the dogs and fled the premises five minutes before the realtor and his client were due to arrive.

After the trash drop, which took approximately 12 minutes, I needed to figure out what to do for the next hour. Food seemed appropriate as I was hungry and now separated from my sparsely furnished pantry, so I went through the drive through at Backyard Burger for a veggie patty for myself and meat for the dogs. The heavy traffic prevented taking a left out of the place to head to Dunbar Cave Park near the house, so after a few curse word filled minutes, it was a redirect with a couple of rights and finally a left into Rotary Park (a County park) to eat and walk. The walk was quick -- I was wrangling two dogs in a new place, so they were all over trying to get all their sniffs and squirts in. There are no trash barrels there (Who knew? Not me!), so I was juggling the burger trash, cell phone, and keys, and trying to not be tripped up by the dogs. We lasted about five minutes.

Still with time to kill, we headed to Dunbar Cave State Park (which has trash barrels AND dog poop pickup bags!). I parked next to a dark green car with a lady talking on a cell phone,  got the dogs out and started walking. We didn’t get very far when I heard the woman yelling. She and I had the only cars in that part of the lot and were the only people around, so I figured she was yelling to me. 

As I got closer, the yelling lady explained she had a flat tire and was on her way to a job interview “right up the street.” I asked the address, as it’s my neighborhood and might know where it was.  She just kept reading from a tattered scrap of paper “Up the street. Past two churches and some apartments.” Ummm, ok. She acted like she assumed I would give her a ride and there was no reason to not help her, so I got the dogs back into the car. As I walked around to the driver’s side of my car, I made sure to check her tires. (Hey, I watch a lot of Lifetime Movies these days in my new lazy, weight building routine and I know that attractive ladies can also be psychotic murderers.)  Flat tire, indeed -- it looked like someone had sliced open the side wall.

In order to take in a human passenger I had to move the stuff into the back seat with the dogs that usually dwells on the passenger seat -- my purse, agenda book, sweater needed to prevent hypothermia in my cubicle, two CD cases that don’t fit into the car's storage thingy, plus the new bag of trash from lunch at the park with no trash barrels. I assessed my passenger as I buried my purse under all the other stuff on the floor in the back seat. She was dressed neatly in brown pants and an earth-toned print blouse (that hopefully camouflague dog hair), her blond hair was in a thick, loose braid down her back, and she carried a medium-sized,  buttery soft leather purse that was maybe a designer bag from TJ Maxx or a decent knockoff. She was skinnier that I was in my good old size four days of one short year ago. I calculated her to be a size two, and figured my new 15 pounds of heft would come in handy and I could take her if she turned out to be some psycho.

She kept repeating the directions “Up the street. Past two churches and some apartments.” I thought I knew the business park -- I drive by it all the time, and never knew exactly what was inside it. We found the entrance, and finally the building. I wished her good luck with her interview and told her I hoped she didn’t have too much trouble getting a ride back to her car and dealing with the flat tire. Then, the dogs and I returned home at the end of our one hour exile. I got them inside, and turned around and went back down my weed covered brick walkway, along the shaggy lawn and raced back to work for my afternoon meeting. But hey, at least my hedges and low hanging tree branches are trimmed. I hope the potential real estate buyer noticed that part and not the rest of it.

Nunya Business

One lonely plan-free Friday night, after rifling through the cabinets and finding nothing upon which to snack (not even chocolate baking chips), trolling the six bookcases in the house and finding nothing of real interest to read, and suffering through an Olympic opening ceremony that included an interview with a swimmer conducted by Ryan Seacrest, it was time to take measures. The Seacrest thing had pushed me over the edge, and it was “Dohner Out” as I hurried to turn off the TV and exit the house. The problem was where to go.

Bars were ruled out, which pretty much left shopping as the only viable solo option. As I am trying to minimize my stuff, not acquire more things, I chose to visit Kroger, where the flyer indicated a special on Fritos, Cheetos and Ruffles. At least I could stuff my face upon my return home. And maybe I’d meet Prince Charming there and it would turn into a coffee date or something. Yes, it’s an idiotic fantasy, but some days, (especially Friday and Saturday) it’s all I have. Unfortunately, halfway to the store I realized I was wearing the unflattering pants and socks and sneakers I wore to walk the dogs after work. Ugh.

Once in the store, I studied the sushi display but most of it is covered in some kind of sauce stuff, so I ruled it out and headed to the salty snack row, where I deliberated over my junk food options as if my life depended on it. The bonus at Kroger is, the chips are in the same row as the beer, so I could scope out the men on a beer run, not that I’d be bold enough to do anything even if I did see someone attractive. What would I do, sidle up to the guy and purr in my sultriest tones, “Oh, darling, you just chose my favorite grocery store beer and doesn’t this place have a decent selection for a grocery store ... so how about you get another six pack and I’ll help you drink it?” Right. I would have to be already really, really drunk to be that bold.

The Frito/ Cheetos/ Ruffles deal was three bags for $7 and my reason for being there, but I chose instead, store brand tortilla chips on sale for $1 and the smaller-than-family size bag of Lay’s. Lay’s are my favorite major brand, mass market chips and a workable substitute for the Tri-Sum chips of my youth that I can’t get unless I order them by the case. History has already proven caseloads of chips to not be a good idea. There is no pantry place to store them out of sight (and thus out of mind), so I just eat them all in a few days. For real.

After the painstaking salty snack deliberations, I extended my big night out by wandering over to the frozen treats case to really jazz up my pity party of one. I lingered over the Ben & Jerry’s and the Haagen-Daz and Bunny and Breyer’s and Edy’s and store brands. There were the no-longer-a-half-gallon new 1.5 quart size on a two-for-one sale, but the freezer was already full of pasta and shrimp and two ears of corn from last summer that I keep forgetting to throw out. I had to be practical and think smaller.

There was a woman in the ice cream row talking loudly on a cell phone, which was kind of annoying, as it was interfering with my frozen treat musings, but it got even weirder when she put her phone away and continued talking to herself in a normal conversational tone of voice. She was expressing out loud what she was thinking about the ice cream. “Oh, caramel swirl, that could be good, but wait that is the store brand, ewww. Oh, look, Ben And Jerry’s Chunky Monkey. Hmmm. What the heck? Frozen Greek yogurt? Blah, blah, blah.” Meanwhile, my eyes were rolling and the voice in my head, which I am fortunately able to generally keep from coming out my mouth, was responding with “Lady, you are coming off like a lunatic, stop narrating your ice cream shopping and shut the hell up!” Cripes.

I hurried my selection to get away from the lady talking to herself and grabbed a small container of store brand chocolate and one of rainbow sherbert, each on sale for $1. I felt her chastising gaze upon my lowbrow store brand choices, but fortunately, her commentary didn’t extend to critiquing my selections, at least not while I was there. If it had, I’d have been forced to tell her if it was so offensive to her, then maybe she should give me the money to buy something less heinous like Ben and Jerry's. But most likely not.

At the register, my potato chips, tortilla chips, ice cream and sherbert moved along on  the conveyor belt. When I handed the cashier my Kroger card (gas points, baby!), she muttered something. I said “Sorry?” and she repeated herself, slightly less mumbly, but still barely intelligible. “Hi. Are you having a good day?”

What is this, some new customer inquisition model? Wouldn’t a more appropriate question be, “Did you find everything you were looking for?” to which I might have responded, “Well, I found my chips, but alas, the Prince Charming I hoped to find in the beer row was nowhere to be seen.”

But come on.  Am I “having a good day?” Seriously? Isn’t that kind of none of your business little Miss Grocery Store Cashier? Cripes, My ex-husband didn’t even get that conversationally personal in seven years of marriage. I wanted to shriek “ I’m a single woman, alone in the grocery store at 9:00 on a Friday night buying chips and ice cream. Do I look like I’m having a good day?”

But I didn’t want to come off looking like the lunatic talking out loud to herself  in the ice cream row and who was now behind me at the checkout, so what I really said was, “Uh, not really.”

Let’s analyze: Is it necessary to my purchase transaction for me to have had a good day? Maybe this line of questioning is a new FDA requirement for buying junk food, or Kroger is now screening people for depression at the checkout. I wonder what she would have asked if I’d been buying razor blades, too. Just stop the busybody chit chat, take my money, give me my damned chips and ice cream and let me get out of here. I’m sure the chatterbox behind me was all too eager to divulge the details of her day, so leave me alone and quiz her.

Smellin' Money

We get business and banking trade magazines at work, which are circulated throughout the office. Titles including Nashville Business Journal, Nashville Post, ABA Bank Marketing Magazine and Independent Banker routinely land on my desk and I actually read them. Sometimes they are a little beyond my scope of work or interest, but there is almost always something in each magazine to catch my eye.

Oftentimes, the articles I enjoy are about using social media to promote business, new businesses opening, customer relationship management or successful bank marketing campaigns from around the country. I always scan the photos and mentally critique the men in them. Once in a great while, the critique is along the line of “Dang, he’s hot. That beautifully tailored suit really brings out his gray hair. Oh, crap, he’s wearing a wedding ring.” Unfortunately, it’s more like “Eww.... did this guy not know he was having his picture taken for this article? What’s with the clown hair?”  Yes, I know ... I probably shouldn’t be reading a business magazine like it’s the match.com listings, but hey, I’m single and drowning in a sea of couples. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Just as New Yorkers were reported to read the obituaries looking for apartment openings and I read them in search of new job openings, this is just a natural, less morbid extension of the process.

In my overactive inner life, if and when I see a photo of a hot businessman or banker in a nicely tailored suit and it’s not mentioned that he’s married, I would drop him a brief, professional note commenting on his brilliant quote in the article, we begin corresponding, and soon, we live happily ever after. It could happen! I had a coworker once who met her handsome and amazing husband when he was an expert witness in a case she was trying. My cousin made a wish on her birthday cake and that very same night her wish was granted when she literally bumped into the handsome Scotsman who would become her husband! See! Real life examples of happily ever after. Unfortunately, in six years of reading the magazines at work, I’ve not yet seen one banker or businessman I found attractive enough to take out my pen and get busy, so I can’t even execute the first step of my fantastical plan. But it doesn’t stop me from hoping.

Today, there was something in the ABA Bank Marketing Magazine that caught my eye. Two things actually. One was  an article by Robert Hall on relationships in our increasingly technology driven world that fosters fewer reasons to leave the house (I need the book -- “This Land of Strangers”). The other was a brief article about a new cologne. Yes, cologne. In a banking magazine. It’s a cologne called Money, comes in His and Her versions, packed in a box with shredded US currency. It claims to smell like freshly minted cash. So, it’s possible to look like money, smell like money and really and truly be SO MONEY! Even the website name is inspiring ... www.liquidmoney.com.

I want this. I need this. I couldn’t wait to get home and check how much money it takes to smell like money (just $42.50! Subtle hint ... my birthday is in one month). This could kickstart the other fantasy that runs through my head ... the one where I meet my personalized version of Prince Charming Mr. Right in the seat next to me on an airplane, while standing in line at a coffee shop or when reaching for the perfect avocado in the produce department of the local grocery store. This fantasy is the reason I rarely leave the house without makeup. One never knows. I already told you about two real life instances of which I am personally acquainted.

Smelling like Money!!! Maybe that’s the golden ticket to attracting a guy who at least owns a nice suit, but more likely, I will attract the panhandler on the street who is in desperate need of money. But which version do I get? If and when I remember to bother to spritz on cologne, it’s Armani for Men, because most women’s fragrances smell too powdery or flowery and make me gag. There is no point grossing myself out with cologne, as there are enough reeking ladies running around the ‘Ville handling the task for me.

I checked the list of “resellers” on the Money website, hoping to test drive “The Fragrance of Success” which includes “the distinct note of fresh, crisp bills” (Her Money) or “the unique aroma of newly-printed bills” (His Money). Sadly, the only Tennessee reseller is, of all places, “The Cowboy Store” in some town called Huntingdon that I’ve never heard of before. Interestingly, many of the reseller names contain the words “Western” and “Cowboy” with Oklahoma and Texas having the most resellers. The smell of money will be heavy in the air over the oil well states. Strangely, the giant state of California has only two resellers, and Massachusetts and New York have none. Asia is listed with just one reseller in the entire region. Europe has one in Lithuania and England has just a website listed. Perhaps the answer is to boost my own money by becoming a reseller in one of the unrepresented areas  ... Hmmmm.

Matching Chemistry

A year ago, I signed up for an online dating service. This was not my first dalliance with modern matchmaking technology. My most recent marriage began with a match-dot-com introduction in 1999, and even though it didn’t quite turn out to be a forever thing and ended in 2008 with approximately 10-pages of a marriage dissolution agreement, I was willing to give the concept another shot. I crafted a profile representing the active lifestyle I prefer and posted several photos. Choices were made for preferred physical and philosophical traits in a companion, the requested credit card number was tapped in and the excited anticipation began for the flood of handsome, available, allegedly compatible matches located within a 50-mile radius. I mean seriously, my gal pals and facebook cyber friends boost my ego all the time telling me how great I am, so it only makes sense that there would be a veritable stampede of men in the local viewing area clamoring for my attention once they realized my availability. Right?

I don’t think I heard you over the sound of all the crickets. I am correct, right??

There was no flood. It was more like a drought interrupted occasionally by a drip. The rate was approximately one drip per week, and most drips were not even good matches on cyber paper. Maybe the pool of potential mates is shallow in my approximate age bracket. Maybe I am just too picky. Perhaps some nuance of the process has escaped me. In any event, I was not impressed by the offerings presented. It is possible my grasp of the English language is flawed, but if my narrative talks about dressing up and references black-tie events, what in those words attracts the camouflage and flannel-clad crowd professing a love for NASCAR, backwoods camping and hunting? Color me red lumberjack plaid confused.

After the three month subscription had run its course the membership was cancelled. There had been exactly one date with a man who was remarkably close to what my profile said I was looking for. He was educated, employed, attractive, funny and even had a photo of himself indicating he had worn a suit at least once in the current decade. We had a nice dinner with interesting conversation and we laughed a lot, but unfortunately, his switch was flipped to the 'off' position and he seemed to instantly lose all interest when I did not attempt to drag him off to bed at the end of the evening. Sorry, the admission fee to that amusement park is a greater investment of time and acquaintance than a few short emails, a phone call and a steak and potato dinner. Call me an old-fashioned bitch. It won't, however, help the situation.

Oddly, after the subscription expired, the drip exploded into a near-thunderous flood of five to ten matches per day. Where were all these men hiding for the three months I was a member? Even odder, I thought I had removed my profile from the program, so why was it even receiving matches? But there it was -- a regular stream of daily emails notifying me of messages on their system and encouraging me to meet Robert and Ben and Michael and JNoDrama and dozens of others. I recognized it as a ploy on the part of the service to get back into my wallet and it wasn’t going to work. Sorry, but I am not stupid enough to think a zillion appropriate matches just happened to join the service the minute I left it.

Over the weekends of Memorial Day and Father’s Day, the service offered "Free Communication" events. My email burst with messages of potential computer matches. A quick login to the site on Father’s Day and a visit to the inbox that seems like it shouldn’t exist on a closed account found it occupied by 101 system matches. I don’t know what some of these guys think women are looking for, but a scan of the listed profiles bore the riveting headlines (and I quote) "howdeee  ladies,,,!" "looking for fun times" and "Who’s you’re Daddy?"

In spite of the claim to provide matches based on chemistry and the lengthy questionnaire that declared me an "Explorer" personality type, the system seems to have gone into overdrive, favoring quantity and ignoring all qualitative criteria. Thanks, but I am already acutely aware that there are millions of the wrong man for me out in the world, and that is why I took the time to read the options provided and make selections that represent “what I’m looking for.” These were not taken lightly by me and are solidly based on my own real-world, comedic production of a love life. That is why, within my profile, time was taken to choose the buttons indicating that my “ideal match” be a reasonably fit, non-smoker in possession of at least a college degree. 

There are few factors on which I steadfastly hold my ground, but years of self-examination and some notable missteps along the way have reinforced this baseline for me -- I know that I am most attracted to educated, non-smoking men who are taller than I am. The elitist editor in me awards bonus points for correct spelling, grammar and sentence structure that doesn’t require an interpreter. Yet, the 101 recent gifts from the cyber matchmaker feature a statistically shocking number of regular smokers with a high school education who can’t string together a complete sentence. The computerized matching system may consider me an "Explorer," so I’ll just save us all some time and go lick a dirty ashtray while attempting to converse with my sofa. At least it won't have to ask for definitions of the words I am using.

Clicks the "not really" response to "would you like to learn more?" prompt.

And Beyond

A few years ago, the Linens ‘n Things chain store departed our frenetically busy mall area, leaving the residents of Clarksville bereft of a store specializing linens for the table, bedroom and bathroom, along with the host of other (overpriced)  items carried there, like pillows, kitchen gadgets and small appliances. The store was usually its busiest during the big sales, which were the only times the pricing made any sense. Now, if they had asked me, I would have recommended they skip the inflated daily prices and carry everything at levels closer to the sale prices. Maybe then the store might not have closed. But what do I know? I’m just an opinionated  consumer on a budget.

After a stretch of being limited to Target, two Kmarts and three WalMarts in search of household necessities like sheets and towels, there was news that Bed Bath & Beyond was coming to town. This seemed exciting – once again, there would be a store providing one-stop shopping for the stuff I actually sometimes need – like sheet sets and comforters, bath towels and shower curtains and the occasional mixing bowl or pizza wheel.

As a resident of a fully (over)furnished home who hates to shop, I don’t even know when the store actually opened, but I remember receiving a catalog in the fall of 2011 when I was spending my days on the couch, mending my leg that enjoyed a compound fracture of the tibia and fibula while playing roller derby. Perhaps ‘enjoyed’ is the wrong word. With the exception of the dreamy, floaty feeling from the lovely drugs I was given in the hospital, there was little that was enjoyable about it. Physical therapy began almost immediately, work followed rather quickly, and I never even had a chance to get bored. I juggled part-time work from my new home office (a.k.a the couch) beginning the third week after it happened. The pain medicine made me tired, and I spent most of my waking time balancing a laptop on my thighs and taking (sometimes long-winded) business calls on my cell phone, forcing me to increase the minutes in my calling plan to avoid the hefty 40-cent per minute overage penalty.

None of this matched my mental image of convalescence. Wasn’t I supposed to wearing a satin bed jacket, propped up by puffy pillows in a bed outfitted in linens that complemented my skin tones as I lingered over books and writing, with pauses to nap as sunlight streamed through my crystal clear, immaculate windows? What sort of injury earns that recuperation program? And where can I get some beautiful bed linens that will give me a rosy glow worthy of a magazine spread? Perhaps our new Bed Bath & Beyond?

The first week out of the hospital bore the closest resemblance to my Victorian convalescence fantasy – that’s when I was staying at the home of my derby wife / buddy / angel-in-waiting Devlin D Flesh, with my busted leg propped high on a stack of towels, alternating between the couch and her youngest son’s bedroom. Instead of a lovely and feminine satin robe, I was mostly outfitted in red capri yoga pants and a black hoodie borrowed from my hostess. She was great company and we watched recorded TV shows and chatted and ate lovely lunches. People visited bearing homemade brownies and she shuttled me to the doctor’s office and then one day it was time to go back to my own home. The doctor had told me I would know when the time was right, and sure enough, one day it was suddenly the day.

Back home, instead of lounging in bed reading, the days involved waking up and doing therapy exercises in bed, hobbling to the kitchen to feed Moose and myself, then hobbling to the couch to fire up the company laptop, clock in and start working. Miraculously, Moose’s temperament had tamed to match my own new, low-energy state and he spent a lot of time on the couch with me. After four hours of remote desktop labor, there was an hour to take care of important business (also known as “watch old episodes of Project Runway”), before hobbling to the door to let in the physical therapist and spend an hour on therapy. Then, suddenly, it was suppertime, followed quite closely by bedtime, which was now several hours earlier than the glorious and active pre-fracture days due to the sleep-inducing properties of the pain meds and energy drain of healing.

This was the rhythm of the days for the next month, punctuated by daily visits from bona fide, genuine angels disguised as Red River Sirens teammates, co-workers and friends who would take time from their own schedules to bring me lunches, dinner, and groceries,  handle chores I couldn’t physically deal with and visit. They were the bright spots in the dark stretch of being broken and working-from-home. I wasn’t looking forward to returning to work at the office, because leaving the house was cumbersome with a walker and the graduation to crutches was not much better. Moving around took ten times longer and required immense amounts of energy.

On the day the Bed, Bath & Beyond catalog landed, carried into the house by a helpful lunch visitor to spare me the fearful trip up the pitched driveway with a walker, I opened it with excitement, eager to see bed linens and bath towels. Since buying a queen size mattress, I have had only two sets of sheets, which means my options are an endless stretch of schlepping to the basement to launder sheets or sleeping in a grubby bed. More sheet sets in the rotation means the shiny promise of a week or two without washing and folding sheets. (This is also my theory on underpants – the more you own, the less frequently the laundry must be dealt with.)

In my excited journey through the Bed Bath & Beyond circular, it took 14 pages before the first (and only) image of a towel and another couple pages before I found the sole depiction of sheets. The 28-page circular was light on “bed” and “bath” and heavy on the “beyond,” with things like dinnerware, vacuum cleaners and a variety of urgently needed “As Seen On TV” products like the Genie Bra. The latest circular leads with an extensive array of patio furniture.

Consequently, seven months have elapsed since reviewing my first circular and I have still not visited Bed Bath & Beyond. Based on what lands in my mailbox, I’ll probably have better luck finding bedsheets at Tractor Supply Company, which, thanks to their recent frequent rotation of TV commercials, I now know is not actually a tractor showroom. To think I’ve been avoiding the place for years because I didn’t need a tractor, and it turns out I would have been mighty disappointed if I had gone there looking for one. Which is how I think I’ll feel going to Bed Bath & Beyond for sheets and towels and finding everything but.